The Benefits of Fresh Air
by Mariole
Summary: After losing his mother and home world, Spock needs a vacation. Ensemble cast. Lightly sexy and fun, with a touch of thoughtfulness.
1. Spock needs a break

**First of 24 parts:**

* * *

After logically assessing the situation from every angle, Spock was forced to conclude that he needed a vacation. The notion was inescapable; he was fatigued, distracted, irritated by trifles. Worse, he couldn't concentrate. It was most disquieting. He'd be on the bridge, and find that he'd long since lost the thread of his thought and had spent minutes merely listening to the beeps of the equipment. Or suddenly his attention would shift from his instruments to the murmur between two consulting colleagues, becoming so intently focused on their conversation (which typically was routine enough) that it seemed he had joined them. The effect was odd and intrusive.

More embarrassing was when someone else (almost invariably Nyota) noticed his lapse. Usually, she would speak his name softly, and he'd come to himself with a start. If he looked her way (a reaction he was striving to overcome), he'd find her watching him earnestly, sympathetic pain evident in her gentle features. Discreet as she attempted to be, her mute concern only made the matter more humiliating.

Therefore, a vacation was in order. He'd never taken a vacation; he'd never before seen the need. But clearly the time had arrived to... extend himself.

Unsure of the protocol (as he'd never been in a romantic relationship before, either), he broached the subject over a quiet evening meal in Nyota's quarters. At this young phase in their relationship, they tended to prefer meals with just the two of them—although if Spock were entirely honest, avoiding the discord of the mess hall would have an enduring appeal.

Seeing no benefit in delaying the discussion, he brought up the subject between bites of salad. "I have come to the conclusion that a vacation is in order."

Nyota's fork froze in midair. "Really." He couldn't tell if she was confused or merely startled. "This is sudden."

"You disapprove," he speculated. He had hoped that she would not oppose him, but her strained reaction suggested misgivings.

"By no means," she said quickly. "I'm just a little surprised. The _Enterprise_ has only been underway for a month."

_Forty-one days,_ Spock mentally corrected, but was too wise to interrupt.

"Doesn't it seem a little early for you to... I don't know— abandon our mission?"

Spock stiffened at the implied criticism. "I do not intend to 'abandon our mission,' Nyota. But I can no longer ignore the fact that I have been performing at subpar levels."

"You've had more than enough on your mind lately to affect your work," Nyota replied. The fact that she didn't refute him confirmed to Spock that his concerns were valid.

Reassured in his course of action, he continued his justifications. "My operational readiness has deteriorated. My usual stress-reduction methods are proving to be insufficient. Therefore, I have concluded that the best way to regain my previous efficiency is to remove myself entirely from the situation. Or, as a human might say, try a 'change of pace.'"

Nyota looked slightly sad, although he didn't understand why. "I should have known you'd have worked this out thoroughly." She sighed. "All right, a vacation it is. Where would you like for us to go?"

Spock froze. He had not foreseen this development, although logic informed him that he should have been prepared. Gently, he said, "I did not consider that _we_ would go anywhere."

"You want to go by yourself?" She set her fork wholly aside. Spock reconsidered his tactics; perhaps bringing up the discussion over dinner had been a miscalculation. Neither of them was making much progress.

"The thought distresses you," he ventured.

"No! It's just that, I'd have thought..." She fiddled with the edge of her plate. "I thought you'd want me to go with you."

Spock reached across the tiny table to touch her wrist. He'd found tactile contact to be effective means of soothing her. "Nyota, this is not an endeavor in which you assist me. I seek to... re-center myself. I find myself drifting, unfocused. Even attending fully to this conversation is difficult for me. I must have a sustained period of time with no competing calls on my attention, nothing to distract me from the object at hand." He stroked her wrist lightly with his thumb. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." Nyota made a game effort to smile, but he could see the unhappiness pouring out of her, feel it through the wrist that pulsed lightly under his fingertips.

"But you don't approve."

"It's not for me to approve or not. That's up to the captain. But I don't like it."

"Do not humans take vacations with routine frequency?"

"It's not that. It's just... I don't think you should be alone at this time."

Spock considered. "If I were human, I should consider your analysis accurate. But I am not. I am... different."

"_Vive la différence_," Nyota said softly. She drew a finger across the part of his hand that was in reach. "All right. I'll take your word that being alone right now won't harm you."

"I assure you, it is the best course of action. I have become weak in body and mind. To recover, I must take prompt and vigorous action."

"Weak in body and mind?" Nyota half laughed. "Spock, you're the strongest person I know."

"I find that debatable."

"I don't. Spock, consider all that you've done, how far you've come—"

"Circumstances do not excuse poor performance. An objective assessment of my abilities would reveal me to be substantially impaired. Meditation is unavailing, and I find the execution of my duties insufficient to fully engage my attention."

Nyota's smile grew. "Only you would find the position of First Officer on a starship insufficient to engage your attention."

"Nyota."

She rose, her eyes glimmering in a way that often signaled a mood of playfulness. She crowded onto the chair beside him, draping her legs across his lap, and traced a fingertip around his ear. He shivered from the contact, startling himself; was his physical control so eroded? But she only smiled.

"I think, my dear commander..." She lightly kissed his ear, "that we need to find _some_ activity that will more fully engage your attention."

Spock felt his defenses crumbling as she nibbled his earlobe. "This... activity is not meant to be a substitute for my vacation, is it?"

Her tongue flicked against his ear, making him shudder. "Consider it an inducement to return."

He turned to face her. "I will always return to you, Nyota."

She pulled him in for a kiss. "You'd better."

Her distraction proved to be fully engaging. Later in the evening they found their half-eaten salads to be completely unsalvageable.


	2. Kirk is surprised

Jim Kirk stared at the Vulcan standing rigidly in his quarters. "A vacation."

"Yes, sir."

"_You_ want a vacation."

Spock didn't answer, his gaze fastened somewhere on the wall over Jim's left shoulder. His absolute stillness conveyed to Jim his unease in making this request, or perhaps his embarrassment.

Jim rose from behind his desk to remove the artificial barrier between them. Jim was generally good with people, but Spock was, as always, the exception. As the only non-human member of the crew, and considering their particular history, Spock was one person Jim really wanted to avoid making a mistake with. Still, not knowing much about Vulcans, he invariably ended up rubbing him the wrong way more often than he would have liked.

Thoughtfully, he approached his First Officer. "I understood from Captain Pike that you had never before requested leave of any kind."

"Correct."

"Why now?"

Spock's face went even blanker than before. Worry spiked within Jim, sharp and disturbing. Maybe it was a private thing. Spock had tons of private things. Maybe Spock would resent him for asking about it, for treading disrespectfully on yet some other ancient Vulcan taboo—

Spock put him out of his misery by answering, "I have never had need of leave before."

"I see," Jim said softly, although he didn't. How could he? Spock was good at not telling Jim anything, even when it was in Jim's best interest to understand.

Back on that horrible first day that they'd met, the older Spock had revealed to Jim the extent of his friendship with Jim's counterpart in the alternate timeline. Following hard on the heels of the Kobayashi Maru debacle and the stranding of Jim on a hostile ice planet, Jim naturally didn't believe it. Spock _hated_ him—at least enough to set Jim up for expulsion and, upon Jim's regaining the ship, throttle him nearly to death. But Jim was determined to hammer out, if not a deep friendship, then at least a functional working relationship with his enigmatic First Officer. And they seemed to be making strides. Spock hadn't once tried to murder him since Jim had officially assumed command. That indicated real progress.

And now, just as that relationship was beginning to coalesce, it was being cut off. With a sudden flash of dread, Jim thought he knew the reason.

"You're going to the colony." Even as he said it, the thought struck Jim with the force of certainty. Spock had changed his mind, and he was leaving Starfleet forever. Or at least for a year, which would be bad enough. Jim would have to pick new officers and change everybody around. And what about Uhura? Would she want to go with him? Crap, there went two of his most valuable bridge crew members in one blow.

It was disappointing on another level as well. In a reverse of the usual method, as time went on, Jim felt his guilt over the way he had wrenched command from Spock increase rather than lessen. True, Old Spock had told him to do it, but Jim was the one who'd actually done the deed. It was his responsibility. He and he alone had pushed Spock harder than anyone ought ever to be pushed—after he'd lost his planet and his _mother_, for crying out loud, right before his eyes. Jim's remorse over that act, necessary though it had proved, troubled him every time he looked Spock's way. Jim had planned to have at least a year to try to make up to his colleague for his actions. He'd hoped that, by laying a solid foundation of respect, he could regain some of that lost ground.

Now all those plans were scuttled. Spock was leaving forever, and Jim would be stuck in the quagmire of his regret for emotionally traumatizing, not only one of Starfleet's most brilliant officers, but one of the last Vulcans in existence who, even if he was annoying, didn't deserve to have his life ruined even more than it already was due to Jim's cutting words. His failure to make amends would haunt Jim forever, and didn't _that_ suck—

Spock interrupted the runaway train of Jim's thoughts with a detached reply. "I have no intention of visiting New Vulcan at this time."

Jim's imagination jerked to a halt. "You don't."

"No, sir."

_Well, that was a relief._ At least, it was a relief until Jim had a moment to think about it, when uncertainty made him almost as nervous as he'd been before. "Where were you thinking of going?"

"Emagious III."

"Emagious—" Jim was brought up short. "That's unexplored."

"Initial long-range surveys indicate that the environment should be conducive to the support of humanoid lifeforms."

"That's... debatable."

"The raw data would tend to support the viability of further assessment."

"Spock, the reason Emagious III was bypassed is because it's way more massive than Earth. You'd be squashed if you set foot on the surface."

A flicker of... something, crossed Spock's face. Irritation? Impatience with a mind less encyclopedic than his own? But he spoke with measured restraint. "Your concern is exaggerated. The gravity is only 3.86% higher than Vulcan's."

Than Vulcan's _was_, Jim thought, although he didn't say it. He swiftly calculated the difference, using those round numbers that mere humans resorted to for their mathematical exercises. It made Emagious's gravity about 9% heavier than Earth's, which was significant but not unreasonable.

"I suppose that wouldn't bother you— as long as you don't mind carrying eight extra kilos of weight around with you everywhere you go."

"I would appreciate the challenge. One of my motives in taking leave at this time is to improve my general fitness."

"Improve your—" Jim blinked, then chuckled. "Well, it's a good thing I met you during your _unfit_ period. Any higher level of fitness, and you'd have killed me!"

Spock simply stared straight ahead without answering— not that Jim had expected a response. He suppressed a sigh and went on with his interrogation. "So you want to visit a heavy, unexplored planet on your vacation. What do you expect to do there?"

Spock kept his gaze focused on the wall. "Survey it."

Jim started. "By yourself?"

"I would welcome the opportunity to engage in a productive occupation during my absence. However, provided that Starfleet is amenable, I would expect to accomplish only as much as is reasonable for a lone individual to achieve during such a sojourn."

Great word, _sojourn_. So why did it leave Jim with a sinking feeling in his stomach? Jim sat on the edge of his desk, facing Spock. "Okay. How long do you plan to stay?"

"Six weeks should be efficacious."

"_Six weeks!_" Jim's shout wasn't enough to make the Vulcan flinch, but Spock did seem to tense slightly. Jim found himself pacing—when had he stood up? "Spock, I can't let you go for _half_ six weeks. Starfleet would have my hide. I was expecting... I don't know, something more along the lines of two weeks." Two weeks in a library at Memory Alpha; that's what he would have picked as Spock's dream vacation. Oh, well. Live and learn.

Spock said calmly, "I believe Admiral Pike will support my application."

Jim looked up quickly. "You spoke with him?"

"No, sir. Thus far I have mentioned the matter only to you and Lieutenant Uhura."

_That_ must've been an interesting conversation, Jim thought.

"I merely wish to state that I am 98.73% certain that Admiral Pike will support the decision—that is, if you do decide to recommend me for leave."

Jim looked at the deadpan face before him. Spock held his face and body in perfect control—or what might pass for perfect control to the uninformed observer. But Jim thought he was beginning to understand this complex puzzle he had acquired as his second-in-command. Spock's posture was too rigid, his face too schooled in its impassivity. Spock wanted this, desperately. Jim could see it in the cast of his shoulders, as if they were being pulled tight behind his back with a steel wire. He could see it in the way that Spock had never once, since beginning this conversation, met his eyes.

Jim took a breath and tried to reorient his thinking. Logic; that was the key. He could make some headway if he focused on logic. "All right. What do you need in terms of support?"

Spock relaxed marginally, obviously sensing Jim's shift in attitude. "Standard survey equipment will suffice."

"You want it beamed down?"

"The _Galileo_ is designed as a survey vessel."

Jim was surprised. "You want a shuttlecraft?"

"If I take a shuttlecraft, the _Enterprise_ will not be required to deviate substantially from its filed flight plan. It will also permit me to engage in long-range surveys while on Emagious III."

"Logical. How about supplies? You'll need enough food and O2 for six weeks."

"Negative. An abundance of consumables will restrict the amount of fuel and survey equipment I can carry."

Jim was perplexed. "What will you eat?"

"I intend to live off the land."

"You _what_?"

Spock did flinch then, and Jim cursed himself. It was like dealing with a bloody thoroughbred stallion. He forced his voice into a softer register. "Mr. Spock, that is—" _Insane, even for you._ "—an unacceptable risk."

"I have often employed such a mode of subsistence on Vulcan."

"Emagious III isn't Vulcan—sorry. It's an unexplored planet. You don't even know if you'll find _anything_ to eat there."

"The initial reports indicate that the composition of the indigenous flora possesses a compatible chemistry."

"By long-range sensor scan."

"Logic dictates that something edible will present itself."

"Logic says no such thing. In fact, the odds are against it. If nothing presents itself, how will six weeks of starvation improve your fitness?"

"Vulcans are not humans. I can easily survive such a period of time without substantial nourishment."

"Sounds like a great vacation. Go to a planet where you'll carry an oppressive weight on your shoulders everywhere you go for six weeks and starve."

Spock said nothing.

Jim rubbed his eyes. What the hell. If Spock wanted to take a break by crawling around on an unexplored planet looking for nonpoisonous roots and berries, who was Jim to interfere? For all he knew, Spock might even find the experience uplifting.

Jim sighed. "Fine. Show me your proposed course. I'll want a look at the _Galileo_'s manifest, too."

Spock somehow conveyed the impression of relief without actually moving. Neat trick, that. "Thank you, Captain."

Jim waved a hand. "My pleasure."

With mixed feelings, Jim watched his First Officer stride out the door.


	3. Uhura explains a few things

Jim paused as he passed the open rec room door. A comfortable drone of conversation drifted into the hallway. His first glance showed a few clusters of people chatting over board games or PADDs, sipping coffee or relaxed in conversation. At a table at the far end, a solitary figure with a shapely set of shoulders and a mane of glossy hair bent over the table, gaze focused on the PADD in front of her. Jim glanced up and down the empty hall, then stepped inside.

Inevitably, a few crew members noticed him as he wound his way through the tables, and nodded or lifted a hand in greeting. Jim was grateful that their current mission was so routine; he could do without the interest his appearance might otherwise have caused. But for the moment, his crew were more focused on their own pursuits than him; that was all to the good. Their ongoing banter would drown out anything he might have to say.

Uhura was seated halfway along a bench at the big corner table. She appeared absorbed in her reading, one hand propping her forehead, the other holding a steaming cup of fragrant tea in the air in front of her. Her fine-boned hand was a perfect match for the delicate china. With unbecoming curiosity, Jim wondered if either the tea or cup was a gift from a certain special someone. He resisted the urge to shake his head. Who would have guessed?

Unannounced, he slid onto the bench beside Uhura and murmured, "You realize your boyfriend has lost his marbles, don't you?"

Uhura didn't even glance at him. She must be practicing her Vulcan self-control techniques. "He's trying to _keep_ his marbles, as I'm sure you're aware, Captain," she answered, eyes still on her PADD.

"By beaming down to a strange planet? For six weeks? With no supplies and no backup?" Jim shrugged. "I don't know, doesn't that sound just a little... _crazy_, to you?"

Uhura sighed, and finally looked his way. There was unhappiness in her gaze, but no apparent dislike, much to Jim's relief. He could use a respite from the almost-constant sniping. "Look, I'm not thrilled about Spock's choice, either. But it's the only solution I can think of, and the only one that Spock thinks will work for him."

"He's a fan of starvation?"

"I'm sure you're familiar with the Kahs-wan ordeal. It's a kind of... Vulcan walkabout."

"Yeah, I've heard of it. The kids go into the desert—went into desert," he amended, "and try to survive for a month or something, as a right of passage."

"I'd say Spock is going through another big transition right now, wouldn't you? He feels... he reasons that the familiarity of this ancient tradition will stabilize him. Anchor him." Her dark eyes searched his, troubled. "You do understand, don't you?"

Jim had to look away. The awareness of his own contributions to Spock's distress— if Vulcans were allowed to be distressed— resurfaced to hit him full force. He said slowly, "I'd feel better if he picked someplace safer."

"Vulcan wasn't particularly safe."

"Yeah, but at least it was known. The _dangers_ were known..."

Uhura sighed, then turned to face him more directly. For the first time, Jim felt that he was having an actual conversation with her—not a battle of wills, but an actual discussion where they had mutual goals. It made him hopeful of having more such productive talks in the future. If this was one consequence of Spock going on leave, Jim would happily accept it. He regretted that his early relationship with Uhura had been so combative. It got tiring, feeling that she was disapproving of him all the time. Jim had had enough of that in his childhood to last him a lifetime.

Uhura glanced over her shoulder, but no one was paying them any particular attention. She lowered her voice anyway. "Captain," she said, with none of the sarcasm she usually packed into the word, "Spock needs to find himself again. Find out... who he is. So much has happened—"

"I know, I know. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like. That is, I can extrapolate, based on my own, shall we say, _losses_, but—"

"I'm not just referring to the obvious. You remember that mess— that huge mess we all ran into when we first got back to Earth after engaging the _Narada_."

Jim paused. He wasn't certain what "mess" she was thinking of. In his mind, the engagement with the _Narada_ had been the huge mess. What had happened after they had destroyed the Romulan vessel was nothing— just the expected chaos of docking a damaged ship and arranging for repairs. Spock would be the last person Jim would have expected to be upset by that; he was born to solve hundreds of unrelated challenges every minute, and never ruffle one perfect Vulcan hair. "Uh... mess."

Uhura was giving him that look again— that "I can't believe you're this slow on the uptake" look that she was so good at. "The pictures," she prompted.

"Pictures," Jim repeated stupidly.

Her eyes flashed with a gleam of her old impatience. "The press. The media. The _reception_."

"Oh, the _reception_!" The memory leaped clear into Jim's mind: the noise, the lights, the newshounds jockeying for position, shouting out their questions and demanding poses. The whole bridge crew was present, and Bones and Scotty, of course, but it was clear that Jim and Spock had come in for the lion's share of attention.

_This way, Commander! Acting Captain Kirk, let's get another one with just you and your First Officer_. Spock had stood woodenly through the whole thing, refusing to answer even one question— merely saying in his soft voice, when he was pressed, "I have no comment on the matter." Yeah, Jim knew that line. The Vulcan was as far into his shell as Jim had ever seen him.

Jim returned his attention to Uhura. She was watching him intently, as if expecting him to understand something. But he didn't; not really. The reception had lasted maybe thirty minutes— Starfleet was keen to show them off, the young "heroes" who'd saved Earth, daring and fresh-faced and blah blah blah. It was supposedly a good recruitment device, and Jim supposed it had worked. Despite the near annihilation of the senior class, enrollment in Starfleet was up almost 200 percent, according to Admiral Pike (who had apparently taken on his old role of cheerleader during his recuperation period).

But Starfleet had deliberately limited exposure to the _Enterprise_ crew shortly after their return, probably to prevent any of their officers (Jim recognized himself) from putting their foot in their mouths. Not that Spock would do that, though. Jim suddenly remembered a herd of reporters (he could summon up no other term to describe them) thundering past him up the hall, chasing a distant Spock who had turned the far corner in the company of Admiral Barnett. _Commander, Commander!_ they'd shouted in overlapping voices, galloping past him— Jim obviously escaping their notice even in his uniform, as Starfleet was still flush with young human officers, whereas Vulcans were an even more exotic rarity now than they had been when Spock had joined, as the first Vulcan Starfleet recruit ever.

"Yeah, that was a crazy time," Jim acknowledged to Uhura, unsure what she was getting at.

"To you, it was crazy. To Spock, it was torture. Just think: all those questions, all that adulation from the vid-watching masses, all those people calling him a hero when he felt his error in judgment had resulted in his mother's death."

Jim snapped to attention. "What error in judgment?"

Uhura hesitated. "He realizes now that he'd stood too close to the edge of the cliff. He should have anticipated that the ledge would crumble."

"It was a _cliff!_ There was a group of people behind him. Where the hell else was he supposed to stand?"

"He thinks they should have gathered nearer the cliff wall."

"Where they would be in danger from falling rocks. You realize, if his mother had been hit by one of those, he'd be blaming himself for not standing nearer the ledge."

Uhura's eyes flickered; he could see that she was assessing his remark. "That's true."

Jim felt a surge of triumph. It wasn't every day—hardly ever, in fact— that he got to offer a useful suggestion to one of the brightest people in his crew. He hoped she'd find a way to get the idea back to Spock, to give him a different viewpoint to ponder. "What else?"

Uhura reluctantly pulled herself back to the conversation. "It really bothered Spock, the way the newsnets were just saturated with information about him those first few days. He's such a private person, and there it was, all over the news: his name, his face, his life story, night after night. 'The young officer who shot down the drill that would have sent Earth the way of Vulcan, who chose Starfleet over the Vulcan Science Academy,'— you know how it was; you must have heard all this."

Jim nodded. Although Starfleet had taken the stance that all the personnel who'd come through the Battle of Vulcan (dead or alive) were heroes, he and Spock had come in for special recognition as the two people who'd actually beamed aboard the enemy vessel and turned the tide. Frankly, the acclamation hadn't bothered Jim too much. On one level, he felt it was his due— a belated acknowledgement that a supposed loser like him could actually amount to something if he wanted to. On the other hand, he didn't believe a word of it, as he knew at heart he was a pretty normal guy (if not actually a loser) who'd managed to turn things around, mainly by good luck. A reasonable person didn't take credit for luck.

It was just as Admiral Pike had said to him, when Jim had visited him in the hospital shortly after their return. "I know it's annoying, but try to tolerate the pictures and the press. A little bit of beauty won't hurt Starfleet's cause."

Jim frowned. "Beauty?"

"You and Spock." Pike grinned, his smile wry either because of the audacity of his statement or the pain he was in, or possibly both. "You don't think it's an accident that Starfleet set you up for so many interviews, do you?"

Jim was momentarily taken aback. "I wondered why they were so eager to get me flapping my gums." He smiled sardonically. "I'm not exactly known for my tact."

"You do well enough. And it helps people... to put a face on things." Pike gazed at Jim with drug-hazed eyes. "You don't mind being our poster boy for a while?"

Jim resisted the urge to laugh. "Considering my last poster job was my face tacked up in the police station with a 'Wanted' sign underneath it, this gig isn't so bad."

Pike had laughed— or rather, rumbled a breathy wheeze which was the closest thing he could manage in his condition. "The world needs heroes," he gasped.

Jim grew serious. "I'm not a hero."

"Right here, right now, you're a hero. Accept it. It will pass soon enough."

And it had. Mercifully, Jim was soon drawn into the whirl of activities that included assuming a true captaincy over his first posting— something that he'd never imagined this soon for himself even in his cockiest scenarios. After those first few days of photo sessions and interviews, Jim never saw Spock at all. Jim had assumed he was in mourning, or doing whatever things a half-Vulcan did after his mother was murdered and his planet destroyed. All anyone at Starfleet could tell Jim was that Spock was "occupied." He wasn't even sure if Spock was going to resign his commission or not until he showed up on the bridge at the eleventh hour, apparently resigned to serve under the same person who'd booted him from the Captain position earlier. It was an interesting move, one which Jim wasn't quite satisfied he understood.

"They followed him everywhere," Uhura said, drawing Jim back to the present. "Every time he went out in public. He's so... visible. And everyone in the world knew his face."

Jim was suddenly curious. "Where did he hide out?"

"With the Vulcan delegation, mostly." Her lips pressed together. "They didn't exactly fawn over him."

"They wouldn't." Jim met her gaze. "Do they blame him?"

"That would be 'illogical'." Uhura gave him a bitter smile. "No, they don't blame him for Vulcan. But they do consider him an inferior being because of his heritage. Not that they'd ever say it outright, but it's continually implied." Her delicate hand closed to a fist— a very lovely fist, Jim thought, but Uhura was absorbed in her own thoughts. "That must have been particularly hard for him to bear. Not for himself; I think Spock has a pretty clear view of who he is and what he wants. But it must have been difficult for him and his father to be exposed to that kind of condescension, considering..." She trailed off.

Jim shook his head. "Talk about your mind benders." At her inquiring gaze, he added, "On the one side, he's got the humans slobbering all over him because he's this half-Vulcan— or should I say, half-_human_— savior of Earth, and on the other he's got the Vulcans reviling him because he's this human-contaminated rebel who rejected Vulcan just a few short years before it was destroyed. If that's not schizophrenic, I don't know what is."

"That's why he needs some time away from it all, to find himself again. No matter how independent Spock is and believes himself to be, he still defined himself primarily in terms of his background: his human half playing out against his Vulcan heritage."

"And now all that's gone up in smoke."

"More like crushed to oblivion."

Jim sighed. He looked idly around the room, noticing that most of the crew members who'd been in here when he'd arrived had left to resume their duties, to be replaced with fresh knots of people on break. It was time for Jim to move on as well. "Okay."

Uhura narrowed her eyes. "Okay, what?"

"Okay. I fully approve Spock's leave, on his terms."

Uhura seemed to hold her breath, and then nodded. She turned her teacup before her on the table, twisting it round between tense fingers. The remnant of tea at the bottom has long since gone cold.

Jim nudged her shoulder. "Hey, I agreed to the plan. Isn't this your cue to give me a big, happy smile?"

"Oh, I'm happy. Relieved, actually. It's just..." She tried to laugh, but her expression continued to be grave. "It _is_ dangerous, him going away for so long to an unsurveyed planet."

Jim rolled his eyes. "This conversation would have been a lot shorter if you'd only said that earlier."

"It doesn't matter what we say or think. Spock needs this. You know it, and I know it." Her gaze returned to her teacup, seeming to bore into it as she turned it around and around.

Softly, Jim asked, "What do _you_ need, Lieutenant?"

She winced, as if struck by a spasm of sadness. Then, because she was Uhura and fearless, she turned to meet his gaze, even though he could then see that, indeed, she was fighting tears. "I just want him to be happy," she whispered.

Jim hesitated. "He's Vulcan, Uhura. He may never _be_ happy."

"We have to let him try." She stood abruptly. "Excuse me."

She strode from the room, eyes fixed on her teacup so she wouldn't have to meet the gazes of any of her comrades.

Jim sighed heavily, then pushed himself up. The first thing he had to do was contact Pike. Then, plot a course that would take Spock near enough to his chosen getaway that he wouldn't waste all his leave time in transit. Jim only hoped that they'd be able to get him back again after his leave was over.


	4. Spock is amazed

Spock was deep in examination of the Fortescue Nebula when he sensed a presence sashaying up behind him. Only Captain Kirk walked with that particular swagger. Spock straightened from his station to face him. "Captain."

"Mr. Spock." The captain was wearing a self-satisfied grin. Spock would have liked to think that meant the captain had good news, but he had learned from hard experience that what appeared good to Captain Kirk wasn't necessarily always agreeable to Spock.

"I have good news!" Kirk announced, in his flamboyant manner that guaranteed he'd be heard by half the bridge. "Your request for leave has been granted."

Spock inclined his head. "Thank you." Strictly, the words were unnecessary, but humans had an illogical desire to have their actions acknowledged, even when these fell under the purview of their regularly assigned duties.

"Headquarters wasn't too happy," Kirk went on smugly, apparently in need of yet more self-appreciation. "But I made them see reason."

"Indeed." The notion of headquarters being happy or not had never entered into Spock's equation. He had made a logical request backed with sufficient data; it was not too difficult a stretch to infer that they would see the reason in his application also.

"Of course, I'll have to replace you with two people. Most of us don't have the range and stamina of Vulcans."

Kirk paused as if expecting a response, yet he was merely stating a fact. Of _course_ he would need to replace Spock with more than one person; Spock currently held two jobs. "Two people," Spock prompted, to nudge him along.

Kirk looked surprised. "Yeah, Science Officer and First Officer. Or have you forgotten that you hold two jobs?"

Spock exercised restraint. "I am aware of my duties, Captain."

Kirk leaned casually against Spock's station, still keen to savor his success. "So I said to Pike, 'What have you got for a Science Officer?' Because First Officer I think we can do. We've got a lot of command-track candidates right here."

Sulu and Malik were most qualified, Spock thought, although any of the bridge crew, including Chekov and Nyota, might be interested in serving in that capacity on a trial basis.

Kirk continued, "I was thinking of asking Sulu to take the duty— if he's interested." He raised his voice while making the suggestion, so of course the helmsman heard it. He turned around at his station and gave the captain a terse nod and equally brief smile.

"It would be my privilege, sir," he said equably. Spock found Sulu's dignified response agreeable. It was illogical to wish that more humans were like him, but Spock hoped always to appreciate them when they occurred.

"We'd use Malik for backup," Kirk continued to Spock. "I won't require Sulu to be on duty 24-7, even though you seem to handle it."

"Malik would be my choice for second shift as well," Spock said.

Kirk grinned and swatted Spock on the shoulder. He'd never yet learned to curb that response, perplexing though it was to Spock. "Hey, we agree on something! Who'd have thought?"

Spock wondered if Kirk were deliberately provoking him; with the captain, it was often difficult to tell. "Actually, Captain, we are in agreement more that 72.4% of the time— as I'm certain you're aware."

"72%, eh?" Kirk, still smiling, had dropped the fraction as was his wont. "I'm surprised it's that high. Not that I want us to be continually at loggerheads, but it's not healthy to have a second in command who agrees with you all the time."

Spock said nothing. Surely he was allowed to let some obvious facts pass by without forcing himself to utter an inane response.

"So Pike offered us Mallory. You know her, from the Academy?"

"Ensign Margory Mallory, astrophysics specialist." Humans often specialized to a far greater degree much earlier than Vulcans. Spock nodded. "Her record is acceptable. She should make an adequate temporary replacement."

Kirk's smile turned wry. "Don't fall all over yourself with praise. It's not as if I expect her to steal the job away from you or anything."

There it was again; the almost constant human need for validation. Belatedly, Spock wondered if Kirk felt that his contained reaction implied that he was critical of Kirk's choice. Carefully, Spock amended, "_Highly_ adequate replacement."

Snickers came from around the bridge—Ensign Lo at the engineering station seemed to be having a particularly difficult time suppressing her giggles. Spock gave an inward sigh. It was challenging, trying to anticipate what humans considered an acceptable response.

But his capitulation had restored Kirk's mood, so it must be considered a gain.

"And now for the bad news," Kirk said, still addressing him in a voice that was easily overheard by half the bridge—or perhaps all of it, as everyone had gone unusually quiet, as if keen to hear as much as they could of the Kirk-Spock show. Spock wondered if it was considered appropriate among humans to discuss a crewmember's leave in so public a fashion. He'd often overheard such discussions in the recreation areas among friends, but never between a superior and his subordinate. But Kirk often ignored the rules, as Spock well knew.

Kirk resumed lounging against Spock's station. "I couldn't get you the full six weeks. We compromised on 37 days. Pike seemed to think that you'd find '37' to be a nice, round number."

Spock suppressed a surge of emotion. It was stifled so quickly that he could not readily identify it— and considering the strength of his reaction, he was grateful that he did not. With a steady voice, he said, "Thirty-seven days is an acceptable compromise, Captain."

Kirk looked momentarily puzzled, as if something of Spock's inner turmoil had shown in his face. Then, from her station, where Uhura had been quietly eavesdropping along with everyone else, she murmured, "Sir, 37 is the number of days in a Vulcan month."

"Oh." Kirk started, and then looked contrite. He gave Spock a twisted smile. "Sorry."

Spock inclined his head. His breathing had become irregular. He should not be experiencing such a strong reaction. Statistically, most humans were ignorant concerning the details of most of their sister planets in the Federation. If they had known little to begin with, it was illogical for them to learn any more of Spock's homeworld now. For a moment, he felt the force of the Vulcan sun, smelled the heat baking off stone as sand whispered across the rocks—and then the image was gone. Suppressed. Filed.

At least Kirk's gaff had made him leave off his "We're all chums" routine. Spock was not the captain's buddy. Together, they formed a reasonably effective command unit. That was as far as Spock's interest extended.

"Well, anyway, it's all approved," Kirk said in a more normal voice, no longer performing to amuse his crew. "I imagine you'll want to take off before we rendezvous with the _Lao-Tse_. I seem to remember that's past the point of optimum departure for you to make Emagious III in the best time."

"Correct."

"That will leave me without a Science Officer for two days, but I don't expect too much can happen to us in two days." He smiled as if to reassure Spock that his early absence wouldn't be a problem.

"In point of fact," Spock said, "the optimum moment for my departure will occur in 26 hours, 47.2 minutes. Your rendezvous with the _Lao-Tse_ will take place approximately 34 hours later, so the unstaffed interval is actually less than two days."

"Even better." Kirk tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. "That's a pretty accurate reading of our course. You haven't been having Chekov constantly recalculate our position since you made your request, have you?"

Spock was taken aback by the question. He knew that humans didn't track themselves in time and space the way that Vulcans did, but to be unaware of one's position when the ship was traveling at a steady speed on a linear course struck Spock as an enormous handicap. He answered tentatively, "I could not have calculated it earlier, as I did know precisely when Admiral Pike would give his approval."

Before Kirk could respond, Chekov's young voice rang out. "_Zamechatel'no_, Commander!" He turned triumphantly in his chair to address them, glee dancing in his eyes. "It is exactly as you say: 26 hours, 47 minutes until closest approach to Emagious III." He gave Spock a boyish grin. "You must have star charts behind your eyes!"

Kirk eyed Spock curiously. "How did you do that?"

Spock stared at him. "I know where we are."

Nyota put up a hand to stifle a laugh, but Spock doubted Kirk heard her. Around the bridge, other crew members were doing their best to suppress their chuckles. But this time it was definitely Spock who'd been awarded the touch.

To Kirk's credit, he took the blow with grace. "Fine, Commander. I'll remember that in the future. How much time do you need to prep the _Galileo_?"

"Approximately 91 minutes."

"Oh, good. I didn't think you'd be able to get everything done that you needed to in just an hour and a half."

Nyota again suppressed her mirth, but this time Spock knew she was laughing with Kirk instead of at him. Several of the bridge crew shared her reaction, as people spun abruptly in their chairs to hide their smiles. Spock pursed his lips. He doubted he'd ever understand why a simple statement of fact would generate such amusement.

Kirk smirked, pleased with re-establishing the mood of jollity. It was an ongoing effort to maintain, but Spock conceded that humans' performance did seem to improve when they worked in a "happy" atmosphere.

However, as he had little to contribute in that arena, he returned to business. "Although Science Officer Mallory has served aboard the _Lao-Tse_ for several weeks, she is still relatively new. Given that I shall require only," he deliberately rounded off, "_90 minutes_ for my personal needs, I shall have plenty of time before departure to prepare detailed notes for her."

"No." Kirk sobered instantly. "No notes. And for heaven's sake, absolutely no _detailed_ notes."

Spock thought he misunderstood. "Sir?"

Nyota broke into the conversation, even though it was technically improper for her to have been listening. "What's wrong with notes?"

Kirk turned toward her, his brows knitted. "It's going to be tough enough on the poor kid having to take over the post from a Vulcan. The last thing she needs is to encounter reams of notes so she can start out feeling like she's already behind. She'll be so intimidated, she'll hightail it back to the _Lao-Tse_ before you can 'warp speed'."

Nyota frowned. "I think you're doing a disservice to both of them— sir. Commander Spock is an excellent teacher, and I don't expect Mallory will turn out to be some frail thing that falls to pieces simply because her predecessor was considerate enough to leave her _notes_. I'd think she'd want to learn some of what the Commander has to share, don't you?"

Kirk crossed his arms, looking petulant. "No, I don't. I know I wouldn't."

"That's only because you can't stand to listen to anybody _ever_," snapped Nyota— and then belatedly recalled her situation and added, "Sir."

"Who wants to read notes on somebody else's half-finished projects?" Kirk seemed not affected in the slightest by Nyota's insubordinate outburst. "It's not as if she'll be continuing his research for him. No, all I want her to do is tell me if some strange glowing object we encounter between the stars is animal, vegetable, or mineral. She'll be able to do _that_ without somebody else's notes, won't she?"

"If that's _all_ you want in a Science Officer, Captain," Nyota growled, "then yes, I expect she'll do fine. But I somehow had the impression that you might be happier with an officer who could do a little bit more."

Spock felt he could no longer avoid breaking in to the conversation. He said tactfully, "If a glowing object is between the stars, Captain, it is unlikely to be any form of organic tissue— animal _or_ vegetable. You should not need a Science Officer or even instruments to tell you this."

The bridge went silent as everybody stared at him. Then Kirk actually guffawed. Spock had not seen the reaction often, but surely that was a guffaw. He slapped his leg and bent double, laughing. Behind him, everyone else on the bridge was laughing, too. Even Nyota put up a hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to cover her tickled response. Spock took it all in, astounded.

Kirk came up for air, although he had to brace himself against Spock's console for support. He wiped away tears of laughter. "Spock, you're great. That was perfect. Thank you."

Spock wanted absolutely no credit for provoking this latest emotional eruption. "I was merely stating a fact."

"Yes, yes you were. Message received, Commander. Sanity is restored." He looked toward Nyota. "Truce?"

Nyota's eyes were glowing in the aftermath of her mirth. She smiled broadly. "Truce."

"Okay, Commander." Kirk slapped him on the shoulder—again. Spock wondered if even the beauty of his Nyota's beaming face was worth it, if Kirk's good humor resulted in yet another trespass into his personal space. Kirk was, as usual, oblivious to Spock's reaction. "You can take whatever 91 minutes you like out of the next 26-point-something hours to gather your personal belongings. But, unlike Officer Mallory, _I_ could use some notes, so please brief me before you light out for parts unknown."

"That was always my intention, Captain."

"Okay. We'll try to limp along the best we can without you."

Spock was certain he did not know the proper response to _this_ statement, so he simply bent over his instruments to resume his examination of the nebula.

Kirk was forced to move aside to get out of his way. "Well, well, well," he murmured good-naturedly. "A vacation for you and a new Science Officer for us." He rubbed his hands together. "Won't this be _fun_?"


	5. Uhura insists

Nyota fidgeted as she stood in the corridor outside Spock's quarters, waiting for an answer to her ring. She smiled self-consciously as a pair of colleagues sauntered by, eying her with covert speculation.

Nyota sighed. She treasured her relationship with Spock, but since it had become common knowledge among the crew (thanks to her own indiscretion, but who wouldn't kiss their boyfriend goodbye on the transporter pad when he was planning to beam over to almost certain death?)— well, let's just say her interest in Vulcans, curious enough to begin with, was now a matter of open speculation. She straightened her back and fixed her gaze on the closed door.

It slid aside to reveal Spock standing within. He had changed into his black meditation robes with the gold filigree that Nyota always found so attractive on him. Not that she didn't find him attractive otherwise. Edible, actually. Only tonight she was too distracted to appreciate it. Much.

"Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all," he answered in his soft voice, and stood aside.

Gratefully Nyota heard the door swish shut behind her. She always felt more comfortable when she and Spock were out of the public eye.

"You are 34 minutes early," Spock observed. "I have not yet prepared our meal."

He was making something Vulcan for his last night onboard. He had overridden Nyota's objections that he should take it easy and let her cook. Perhaps he wanted to keep himself busy, to hold the butterflies at bay (assuming he had them; from his calm appearance, it seemed not). Nyota had them in spades, fluttering aimlessly around her stomach. She hoped she'd be able to coax down whatever dish he eventually produced.

"I'm not hungry— yet," she added quickly, in case he jumped to the conclusion that she was avoiding Vulcan food. It did taste rather sharp to the human palate. "I wanted to see if I could help you pack."

"Assistance is not required. I have already completed assembling my personal belongings."

Nyota felt an almost overpowering curiosity. What would a Vulcan carry on a survival expedition? "Do you mind if I look over what you're bringing?"

"Not at all." He stepped back to give her clear access to the room.

Nyota scanned the cramped chamber for the bulky pack or duffle she expected. Nothing by the desk, or beside the door. She peeked into his sleeping chamber. Nothing. "Where is it?"

Spock raised an eyebrow, then gestured at the bed. "It is there."

Nyota's gaze fell across the neatly made bed. In the center, almost indistinguishable against the bedspread, sat a small, dun-colored package roughly the size of an old-fashioned shaving kit.

"That's _it_?" She whirled toward her companion. Spock looked amazingly bland, which was his subtle way of trying to get her to calm down. With an effort, she lowered her voice. "That's it? For six weeks in the wilderness? You're taking this... this... _bag_?"

"It contains all the essentials I require."

"For what, a tea party? Nope, sorry, it's too small for that." Nyota tried to rein in her exasperation. "What exactly are you bringing?"

In answer, Spock picked up the kit. Granted he was strong, but from his swift motion and the ease with which he held it in one hand, Nyota concluded the bag weighed nearly nothing at all. The straps that flapped from it indicated that it was intended to be worn around the waist, like a belt. This was apparently his complete survival gear; a belt with an oversized wallet for his six-weeks expedition. She ground her teeth in frustration.

Spock opened the flap. "Water condenser," he announced, pulling out a small silver tube and dropping it onto the bedspread. He removed something flat and rubbery looking, and unfolded it to reveal a bag about the size of a child's party balloon. "Container for the condensed water."

Nyota nodded. She hadn't realized they'd made survival equipment so compact, but of course Spock would know all about the latest improvements.

He continued his inventory, pulling out next a flat packet like a fat envelope. "First aid kit."

Nyota frowned. This was exactly the kind of foolishness she was hoping to prevent. Firmly she said, "That is _not_ a first-aid kit."

"Correction. This is my portable version. There is, of course, a far more extensive one onboard the _Galileo_. But this package contains emergency bandages, splints, antiseptic, and so on. I will carry this with me at all times."

Nyota was slightly mollified. "All right."

Spock next removed a rather large, multiplex tool. It ran the entire length of the kit. It looked light to handle, but Spock opened it up to reveal a substantial knife with a cutting edge and saw-edge, prying and cutting tools, and other useful attachments. "For a variety of purposes," he said shortly.

Nyota nodded. She was starting to feel that she'd overreacted. Spock seemed to know what he was doing, as usual. "What else?"

He held up a rectangular box about the size of his palm. "Miniature tricorder for field analysis and recording. I will, of course, have a full-sized version in the shuttle."

"Of course." She bit her lip, still anxious.

Spock pulled out a bundle of light material no more bulky than two fists. He shook it out, and it unfolded itself into a full set of clothing: long-sleeved jacket, a full shirt and a tank-top, long pants, socks, underclothes, and a couple of thick-soled foot-coverings that looked like rubbery, form-fitting moccasins. He looked at her expectantly.

She stared at the bundle of clothing that had magically appeared on his bed. "I didn't know it could fold down so small."

"It is rated to withstand a variety of environmental extremes: heat, cold, moisture, rough terrain." He picked up one of the smaller pieces that had fluttered to the bed, and stretched it open to reveal a fine-meshed bag. "To keep pests from one's face and head," he explained. "I have hand coverings that serve the same purpose— and gloves, of course." He picked up two crumpled pieces of cloth that were, indeed, hand-shaped. She supposed they expanded when he put them on.

But the netting had her curious. "Why don't you use a spray?"

Spock set down the shell of his kit and began to roll his scattered apparel back into a tight bundle. "As you know, pests evolve in response to a specific environment. It is unlikely that any of our repellents would have the desired effect on an unknown species. Similarly, remedies such as anti-toxins and anti-venoms are likely to prove useless— hence the need for physical protection."

"Physical protection." Nyota watched as he stuffed his reassembled clothing back into the kit. With a start, she realized that she had seen the entirety of the bag's contents. "_Wait a minute!_"

Spock froze in the act of folding up his multiplex knife. "Yes?"

Nyota gestured at the bed. "That's it? I mean, that's _really_ it? That's the shebang?"

"One does not desire bulk when traveling in the wilderness, Nyota."

"But you said needed physical protection!"

"I have it."

"No, you don't! Where are your boots?"

Spock stared at her. "Boots?"

"You're not carrying anti-venom. What if you step on a snake or a scorpion, or whatever equivalent Emagious III features? A stinger would go right through that footgear you showed me."

"I assure you, it would not."

"That material is hardly a millimeter thick!"

"It is sufficiently sturdy to withstand any reasonable assault, be it from a sharp-edged stone or sharp-fanged predator."

_Predator._ Nyota stiffened. "Where's your sonic repeller?"

Spock's expression hardly changed, but Nyota knew that, if he'd been human, he would have been curling his lip. "I see no need for carrying such a device. Besides, I will have a phaser in the shuttle."

"You won't use it," Nyota said with certainty. "I know you. You want this to be a kind of adult Kahs-wan. You'd consider a phaser to be cheating."

Spock merely eyed her—which confirmed her suspicion.

She started to pace. "Spock, listen. I'm fully supportive of your goals—you know that. But, strong as you are, you're virtually defenseless against any large predator—or a pack of predators. You really ought to carry something for emergencies—such as a sonic repeller."

Spock hesitated. "I prefer not to use them."

"You pre—" Nyota caught her breath. "Spock, it's the only certain non-lethal method we have for driving away large animals!"

"It would seem counter-productive, if one's purpose is to examine the local fauna, to drive them away with hypersonic waves."

"You won't be studying the fauna in your sleep."

"I am... sensitive to the noise."

"It's hypersonic."

"Nevertheless, I react negatively when I am in the vicinity of an operating unit. It gives the most unpleasant impression of electrical current shivering over one's skin."

Nyota winced. "Well, I think you should bring one anyway. You could turn it on only if you had to— like if you were being charged by the equivalent of an Emagian rhino."

Spock said neutrally, "It might prove useful in that regard."

In other words, he hadn't the slightest intention of bringing one. Nyota redoubled her attack. "It's your surest means of self-defense."

"It is a fact that most animals do not attack unless provoked."

"_Non_-Emagian animals usually do not attack unless provoked. We know nothing about the Emagian variety."

"It is my intention to leave the indigenous life undisturbed. I am a mere visitor to their home. I have no right to inflict my personal desires onto the local inhabitants."

"Your personal—" Nyota bit off her words. _Spock could be so frustrating!_ Taking a breath to compose herself, she said (with commendable restraint, she thought), "I admire your intention not to inflict your selfish desire for self-preservation upon the indigenous population. But, as you are so concerned about disrupting their established patterns, I would like to respectfully remind you that Vulcans do not constitute a normal part of an Emagian animal's diet, and you might cause unintentional intestinal distress if you were to be devoured by some innocent beast, simply because you couldn't be bothered to carry a sonic repeller."

Spock narrowed his eyes, but Nyota had no patience for his disapproval.

"Furthermore," she went on, "your falling down and dying somewhere— let's assume from a venomous sting— would also create an unhealthy strain on the native scavenger life, as they, too, would be rashly exposed to an unorthodox dose of Vulcan physiology. Who knows how disastrous the chain-reaction might be, once you pollute the poor creatures of Emagious III with your alien composition? I shudder even to contemplate the possibilities."

Spock held her iron gaze a moment, then sighed. "Very well, Nyota. I will bring a sonic repeller."

Nyota smiled grimly. "And boots."

"I will have boots with me."

"Not your Starfleet uniform," she interjected, familiar with Vulcan prevarication. "I know perfectly well you won't be wearing it when you're slogging through some mire trying to catalog the flight of some arresting variety of insect."

"In such a scenario, I cannot imagine I would be wearing the type of heavy footwear you suggest that I bring, either."

"Then bend the scenario."

"It is _your_ scenario. I assure you, Nyota, if I venture into a bog, I shall take the appropriate precautions."

"Seriously, Spock—" Nyota lowered her voice, then crossed the room to take him into her arms. He held back momentarily— she rarely could get past that automatic reaction— before he consciously relaxed into her embrace. She murmured against his chest, "You know the only reason I'm fussing is because I want you to come back in one piece."

"I know."

His voice reverberated through his body to rumble against her ear. He suddenly became very dear to her— even dearer than before. She clutched him tightly. "Promise me," she whispered. "Promise me you won't do anything foolish."

"It is never my intention to behave without due regard for the consequences."

"The consequences are that my heart will be broken forever. You don't want _that_ on your conscious, do you?"

"I assure you that concern will be uppermost in my thoughts as I sink slowly into a bog after being stung by dozens of poisonous ground-dwelling insects."

Nyota swatted him, then held him tighter than before. "Just... do your best to come back to me."

"I have already said that I will."

"Say it again."

Spock ran a warm palm soothingly over her back. "I will come back to you."

Nyota stood a moment, absorbing the heat and solidity of him. Then she ran a hand over her eyes, to brush away the telltale beginnings of tears. She drew an unsteady breath, and pulled herself erect. "So, I've utterly failed as an adventure advisor. Do you mind if I try to improve my usefulness by helping you with dinner?"

"Your assistance would give me genuine pleasure."

"Why, you silver-tongued devil." Nyota sniffled, then forced a smile onto her face. "Okay, I'm composed again, for the moment. What's on the menu?"

"Besides Vulcan?" he quipped.

"Oh, but it _is_ on the menu." She kissed him. "But I'm saving it for dessert."


	6. Spock attempts to be patient

Spock surveyed the _Galileo_ from just inside the hatch, and nodded with satisfaction. The shuttlecraft was trim, her payload balanced to the gram.

Spock himself felt exhilarated. He had not eaten since his meal with Nyota the night before. It was good to fast before an ordeal. He did not intend to break into his meager ship's stores any time before arriving at Emagious III, approximately 43 hours from now. Once on the planet's surface, he hoped to make a rational assessment of the world's natural bounty. He would count it a personal triumph if he could return to the _Enterprise_ with exactly the same allotment of rations as when he departed.

A muffled _Hulloooo_ drew his attention to the outside of the craft. Spock ducked through the side hatch and paused on the top step. In addition to the inevitable technicians scurrying about the shuttlecraft bay in preparation for a launch, Spock saw a greeting party—a farewell party?—stepping through the cargo bay door. Captain Kirk, in the lead, waved cheerily. Close behind him were Dr. McCoy, his dear Nyota, Ensign Sulu, and Mr. Scott. And every one of them was carrying something.

Spock suppressed a sigh. Considering the timing, Spock could only assume these were gifts—in all likelihood, additional supplies that he would be expected to take with him. He wondered how offensive it would be if he simply sealed the hatch now, and waited inside the necessary ten minutes before his scheduled departure time. Resigned, he stepped down to the cargo bay floor to meet them.

Kirk spoke first, a grin all over his face. "It's about that time, eh?" He handed Spock the object in his hands.

Spock turned it over, examining it. It was a short length of hollow, plastic tubing. He looked at the Kirk, questioning with his eyes.

Kirk jerked a finger toward something behind Spock's back. "It goes with that."

Spock turned to find two technicians, obviously by pre-arrangement, lugging a man-sized canister of liquid oxygen toward the shuttle's aft door. They heaved it into the rear hold with a clang, then started maneuvering it inside. Frowning, Spock turned back toward the captain. Kirk raised his hands before he could speak.

"Now, I know you prefer to travel light. But I've checked your consumables. If Emagious III proves to have a harmful atmosphere, you don't have nearly enough oxygen to last the entire time in your enviro suit."

If Spock were human, he might have had to count to three hippopotamuses, as his mother used to say. Instead, he spoke in his calmest voice. "Were Emagious III indeed to prove inimical to humanoid life, I would simply abandon the mission before my supplies ran out."

Kirk wagged a finger at him. "What if the shuttlecraft was damaged, and you couldn't fly away? What would you do then?"

Perhaps it was indeed time to count to three hippopotamuses. "Captain, the odds against the shuttlecraft being damaged _and_ Emagious III being totally unable to support humanoid life are—"

"Don't quote odds," McCoy interrupted. "I've seen what you're carrying in that shuttlecraft, and it flies in the face of every reasonable safety precaution that Starfleet puts out." The composed faces of everyone else in the party tended to support the conclusion that they agreed with the doctor.

Spock was forced to state the obvious. "Starfleet guidelines are designed around human parameters, Doctor."

"Don't give me that 'Vulcans are immune' speech, Spock, I beg you. I've had a look at your medical kit, and it doesn't begin to scratch the surface."

He stepped forward to display the rather bulky kit he was holding in the crook of his left arm. Spock consulted his internal clock. Nine minutes until scheduled departure. If he wanted to get away on time, it would be wisest for him not to challenge any of their offerings. Spock composed himself to listen patiently.

Dr. McCoy did not observe him, but was busy digging through the kit. "Now, you've got enough aboard the shuttle to handle any routine emergency— physically. But why the Sam Hill you didn't bring any medications is beyond me."

Spock broke his newly born resolution not to speak. "Human medication—"

"Shut up. I'm not letting you say 'no' to this."

Spock resolved once again that silence was golden.

McCoy dug through his pack. "Painkiller, coagulation enhancer, every kind of antibiotic you can think of—" He looked up. "It's an unknown planet, Spock. You have no idea what kind of medication is going to work against these bugs."

"Indeed. That is why I had chosen—"

"And bug spray!" He briefly held up a canister of it, and then dropped it back into the bag. "Why the heck you aren't taking bug spray is beyond me." McCoy shook his head and resumed pawing through the contents. "Prevention, Spock. That's better than any cure."

Spock could see Nyota and Sulu trying to hide their smiles. He merely said, "In this instance, Doctor, I agree with you."

McCoy apparently found what he was looking for. He removed a flat packet that had a viscous quality. "Firestarter."

"I am carrying an adequate quantity of pyro tablets, Doctor."

"Pyro tabs are useless if you can't find a hard surface to strike them against."

Nyota interjected quietly, "Such as, if you're in a bog."

Spock glanced her way, recalling their conversation of the night before. Her thoughts were obviously similarly engaged, as she was smiling fondly in a way that warmed Spock inside.

But McCoy appeared to observe nothing strange about their interaction. "She's right. Now, this stuff—" He held the packet close to Spock's face, as if proximity would reveal its secrets. "You just take a piece out and twist it, and if there's any organic material at hand—"

"As there would be, in a bog," Kirk added, not understanding the joke but obviously enjoying how much the subject entertained Nyota.

"You smear it on that," McCoy continued, as if the others hadn't spoken, "and it will light."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Spock formally. "I can envision a circumstance where that might prove useful."

"It's no joke!" McCoy scolded, apparently failing to understand that Spock had just agreed with him. "A man can get hypothermia at 15° C. That's shirtsleeve weather. You only have to get a little cold and wet—"

Sulu interrupted, "Such as, in a bog?" Then he, Nyota, Kirk, and Scotty ducked their heads to hide their snickers.

McCoy threw up his hands. "I give up."

Spock gracefully took the bulky kit and the sealed packet from McCoy. "Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Nyota stepped forward. She was—as he should have surmised—carrying a heavy pair of water-resistant boots. "Here. Use these when you get to your bog."

McCoy glanced irritably at the grinning people around him. "What's all this about a bog?"

The others broke into laughter. Spock said, "Lieutenant Uhura was kind enough to share some of her concerns with me last night over possible hazards I might encounter."

"And you're planning to sink into a bog?"

Nyota nearly doubled over, squelching her giggles with her hand. Kirk, watching her, beamed indulgently.

Spock said calmly, "No, Doctor. I've decided against it."

Scotty stepped forward. "Well, when you're sinkin' into the bog, before ye get too far in, you just might find this useful." He held forth the item he'd chosen to bring. "A laser beacon. Just in case, ye know, Emagious III has an environment that happens to put out a lot of interference. This wee lass," he tapped the cylinder's housing affectionately, "will be able to cut through almost any communication difficulty, easy as breathing."

"Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Scott." Spock shifted McCoy's bag and Kirk's hose to the crook of his arm, and took the laser beacon. Nyota set her jungle boots at his feet.

Spock turned his attention to Mr. Sulu. The helmsman seemed nervous, fiddling with a metallic object in his hand. "Well, sir, the Lieutenant told me about your dislike of sonic repellers. I understand; I don't care for them myself. And I can see why you might not want to fall back on using a phaser. That's been known to unintentionally damage a sensitive species."

Sulu kept his eyes from Kirk as he spoke, but Spock saw the captain perk up at hearing this piece of information. His gaze slide speculatively toward Spock—but Spock kept his attention focused on the helmsman.

"Still," Sulu continued, "I felt you shouldn't be without a long-range weapon of some sort. So... here's my compromise."

He held forth the item he'd been playing with. It was a sturdy tube about 20 cm in length with a slip-proof grip on the handle. Spock took it curiously.

The helmsman leaned forward. "There's a catch just above the grip here." He pressed a lever, and two metallic arms sprang from the end of the shaft to form a Y shape, with a connecting strap between them.

"It's a slingshot," Sulu explained. "An old Earth weapon. You put a projectile into the pocket of the strap, a stone or other heavy object. You pull it back by your cheek—here, let me show you."

Spock returned the weapon, and Sulu demonstrated the stance. He released the tension on the strap and returned the gift to Spock. "It's surprisingly accurate, and with a heavy projectile, you can get a range of 100 meters or more. In the base here—" Spock turned the weapon over, and Sulu pried off the end cap (as Spock's other hand was full). A flat, silver pellet gleamed inside. "You've got ten shots loaded into the handle. They're too light to travel far, but upon impact they'll burst, emitting a noxious gas and making a loud noise. It's another alternative, if you want to frighten something away without hurting it."

Spock found himself somewhat at a loss for words. He watched as the helmsman meticulously closed up the handle, restoring the slingshot to its ready state. Spock examined its sleek lines thoughtfully. "Thank you, Mr. Sulu. I will indeed find your offering to be of use."

Sulu nodded and stepped back, his heightened color betraying his self-consciousness. Nyota was looking at him with gratitude shining from her face. Kirk still watched Spock with a sour expression. He was in all probability awaiting an opening to follow up on Sulu's phaser statement.

Just then the overhead comm went on. Chekov's youthful voice announced, "Two minutes until shuttle launch. Two minutes until optimum distance."

"Well, we'd better get going." Nyota stepped forward and gave Spock a peck on the lips. He generally was not in favor of public displays of affection, although Nyota had assured him that such gestures among humans were common and unremarkable. Unremarkable, indeed. Clearly Nyota misunderstood the potency of her kisses, however brief.

"Good luck," "Safe journey," muttered the others, waving at him because it was impossible to shake Spock's hand, as he held the open medical bag, hose, and laser beacon in one hand and his slingshot in the other. Nyota's boots nestled at his feet.

Kirk pointed a finger at him as he backed out of the shuttle bay. "Remember, your phaser's no good if you don't keep it on you." He winked, and followed the others out the double-wide door. The last glimpse Spock had of them was Nyota's face peeping through the closing doors, blowing him a kiss.

The doors shut, and Spock allowed himself 2.5 seconds to recompose himself. Then he raised his voice to address the three technicians who were still double-checking various components on the far side of the bay. "Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all."

The technicians exited quickly without fuss. The doors closed.

Swiftly Spock reached down to gather Nyota's jungle boots into his collection. He crossed toward one of the storage lockers and, fumbling a little with his burdens, opened the latch. He dumped the entire assortment inside, saving out only McCoy's firestarter packet and Sulu's slingshot. He slammed shut the lid and locked it, then hurried into the shuttle.

The oxygen canister was heavy, but he hadn't time for the anti-grav units. He wrestled the unwanted canister out of his aft hold and lugged it toward the storage locker. He wrenched it into place and locked it down with the other tanks, and then dashed back into the shuttle.

He arrived to the sound of Mr. Chekov's voice coming from the main panel. "—ock. Come in, Mr. Spock. Commander, do you read me?"

Spock slid into the pilot's chair, slightly out of breath. He touched the comm button. "Spock here."

"Commander, request permission to initiate launch cycle."

"Standby, Ensign." Spock glanced over his shoulder to verify that the forward hatch and aft door had closed. Swiftly he checked the indicators on his main panel. "Permission granted."

"Initiating launch cycle."

The warning lights and buzzer sounded, and the shuttlebay doors began to open. Beyond them glimmered the deep starfield of space. Spock ran through his prelaunch sequence rapidly. All lights showed green.

"Evacuating bay," came Chekov's warning.

The force field dropped, and the atmosphere rushed out the open door into space. Spock heard it as a whisper against the skin of his craft, followed by hard silence. He hit the startup sequence. "Engaging engines."

"Confirmed, _Galileo_. You are clear for launch."

The craft lifted with a satisfying nimbleness. Within 3 seconds, Spock had cleared the bay doors and was engulfed in the brilliant night of space. He felt a weight lift away from him. In fact, he seemed to feel lighter with every passing meter as the _Enterprise_ fell away behind him. It was a curiously soothing impression.

He adjusted his course. "Steering two-seven-oh mark seven," he reported.

"Course correction confirmed. At projected course and speed, you should arrive at Emagious III in... 42 hours, 53 minutes."

"Acknowledged, _Enterprise_."

Kirk's voice broke in. "Have a fun trip!"

_Fun_. Spock sank into his chair. No, having _fun_ was not Spock's purpose. He wondered if any human would understand—and then dismissed the inquiry as meaningless. No one fully understood another's situation. A meld could drop that barrier, for a time; but as soon as it was over, each participant was as isolated and misunderstood as before. To wish for circumstances to be otherwise was illogical.

It took an act of will for him to touch the comm button to respond. "Acknowledged." He wondered if his voice sounded as gravelly to the people on the bridge as it did to himself.

Nyota's voice whispered to him from the console, "We'll be tracking you out of the system."

Spock worked to find his voice. "Thank you, _Enterprise_. It is appreciated."

The voice link went dead. Apparently, everyone on the starship finally felt that enough parting words had been said.

Spock closed his eyes with relief. The shuttle powered smoothly forward, as he wrapped the silence of space around him.


	7. McCoy expresses an opinion

Science Officer Margory Mallory, astrophysics specialist, could barely keep her composure. Here she was at last—on the _Enterprise_! The flagship of the fleet. As soon as the shuttlebay docking cycle completed, she'd actually be meeting some of the crew that she'd seen and heard so much about over the vids. Her mouth was dry and her fingers shaky as she ran through the final shutdown sequence.

A variation in the _Lao-Tse_'s schedule had required her to come ahead alone in a shuttlecraft. Maggie didn't mind; piloting gave her something to do besides fidgeting herself to pieces with nerves. When she had seen that gleaming white hull rise up from the depths of space, her heart had gone all anyhow. That was the _Enterprise_, champion of the Federation, and it was coming to meet _her_. Maggie hadn't been this excited since the day she'd received her Starfleet commission.

"Docking cycle complete," her comm panel announced. She smiled at the voice. _Pavel Andreievich Chekov_, she thought, although he hadn't introduced himself—but who could miss that accent? With everyone on Earth taking such pains to correct their regional accents, Pavel's thick intonations were breath of fresh air. Soon she would be up there—on the bridge with him! Her grin peeped out, despite her nerves.

Anxiously, she glanced at her dim reflection in the shuttle's forward screen, and raked her fingers through her short, red hair. _Maggie, baby, you never got anywhere in this life based on your looks. Stop worrying about it now!_

Pavel's boyish voice continued, "Safety interlocks engaged. You may exit your wehicle."

Maggie's trembling finger almost missed the comm button. "Acknowledged. Thank you, Navigator."

There was a pause, and then a tentative answer. "You're velcome."

_Rats_. Pavel sounded puzzled. Maybe he hadn't expected her to recognize his voice. Maybe she wasn't supposed to know that he was the chief navigator of the _Enterprise_—but was she supposed to have lived under a rock? Surely he knew—_all_ of them must know—that their faces had been all over the nets for two months now.

Oh, well. She just had to be herself—and not screw up, of course. She chewed her lip. She was well aware that she was taking over from Commander Spock. _Commander_ _Spock!_ The idea nearly blew her away. She wondered if Captain Kirk would expect her to be a supergenius like him. Granted, she was no slouch, but she wasn't a genius and was the first to admit it. She liked working with geniuses; adored it, in fact. But in the end, she was just a relatively talented human being who wanted to pursue a career in space. Surely there would be room even for the likes of her aboard the _Enterprise_.

She ran through her exit checklist a second time after the shuttlebay repressurized—she was rattled enough that she suspected she may have made some idiot mistake—but everything was in order. She took a deep breath, then popped the seal on the hatch.

The _Enterprise_'s shuttle bay was comfortably similar to the _Lao-Tse_'s—yet it was just different enough to be slightly disorienting. The cargo pods were stacked in the left corner instead of the right; the technicians who had already scurried into the bay to do their post-flight checks all had unfamiliar faces.

And there was an unusual noise—someone... shouting? Maggie furrowed her brows. There had been very little shouting aboard the _Lao-Tse_. Maggie rounded the aft end of the shuttlecraft, heading for the ship's inner doors.

She cleared the craft and stopped. Standing there, not six meters in front of her, was Captain Kirk. Her heart gave a little flip. _He looked just like himself! _That is, he looked like he did on the vids. Only this was real. He was here, now, right in front of her, head canted to the side as he stared into space, looking very... bored, actually. Yes, that was a definite look of boredom. Or maybe it was weary patience; Maggie couldn't tell.

Apparently Kirk had need of patience. As soon as she'd rounded the corner, Maggie had noticed the source of the shouting. It was an older, dark-haired man, and he was ranting into Captain Kirk's ear.

"_...medication!_" he was saying. "Every civilized being in the _Federation_ understands the importance of medication. Where would we be without antibiotics, vaccines, analgesics—_where_? Yet he just throws it all aside, throws it all aside!" His hands waved wildly as he made his point. "I swear, if he doesn't die on his own, I'm going to _kill_ him!"

Margie was a little hesitant to approach; this seemed a rather serious discussion. Yet the captain's bored expression and the complete disinterest on the part of the passing technicians encouraged her. She took a step forward.

Her movement drew Kirk's attention. His eyes darted her way, and he straightened up and gave her a smile. It seemed he was as relieved to see her as she was reassured by his welcoming response.

He held up a hand to his companion. "Hang on a second, Bones."

"Bones" flung his hands in exasperation. "Oh, sure, fine. It's only your First Officer's life at stake. Nothing urgent there at all."

Kirk's expression didn't change from his initial look of relieved welcome. If this was a life-and-death situation, he was certainly taking it calmly. He stepped forward to meet her. "Ensign Mallory. Welcome to the _Enterprise_."

She pulled up at attention before him. "Permission to come aboard, sir."

"Granted." He turned toward his companion. "Bones, this is our new science officer—ready to assume her duties, I imagine."

Maggie nodded, while "Bones" ran a hand through his ruffled hair. Maggie studied him; he looked familiar too, now that she was closer to him.

"Bones" ignored her, addressing his remarks to the captain. "I suppose that means you want to continue this conversation later."

Kirk said neutrally, "If _you_ want to continue this conversation, later would be better, yes."

"Fine." Bones did face her then, distractedly shaking her hand. "Ensign Mallory. Welcome aboard. You seem like a pleasant, well-socialized being." He shot a fiery glare at the captain. "It will save me the trouble later of having to _wring your neck_."

Maggie stared, but Bones was clearly still irritated with the captain. "See you later," he snarled at him, and marched out of the bay.

Kirk sighed. "And that was our chief medical officer, Dr. McCoy."

Maggie felt bewildered. "Does he often threaten to wring people's necks?"

Kirk shrugged. "It keeps him happy." He tilted his head towards the doors that McCoy—Bones—had just disappeared through. "Shall we?"

Maggie looked at the bay doors suspiciously. "Is it safe?"

Kirk chuckled, which set her unexpectedly at ease. They meandered through the doors at an easy pace, Kirk nodding absently toward the technicians as they exited.

"Sorry about the fireworks. You caught us at a bad time."

Maggie was puzzled. "Weren't you expecting me?"

Kirk chuckled again, which had the effect of almost magically dissipating her anxiety. "It was your arrival that caused the blowup."

Maggie blinked. "Sir?"

"No, it's nothing you did." He put a hand on her back to guide her toward one of the branching hallways. "When the technicians prepped the bay for your arrival, they discovered a few... gifts, that my First Officer had left behind when he took his shuttlecraft out the day before yesterday."

"Gifts?"

"Our gifts to him—contributions to his expedition. Apparently Commander Spock felt he didn't have room for them aboard his shuttlecraft. Shortly before your arrival the prep team found them stuffed in a locker in the shuttlebay." Kirk smiled sardonically; he seemed torn between amusement and something else. Regret? "Anyway, Dr. McCoy didn't react kindly to finding his carefully assembled medical kit stowed away under a laser beacon and a pair of heavy boots."

"Oh, my." Maggie wanted to chuckle, but wasn't certain she understood the situation well enough. "Was it really a life-threatening decision? I mean, would Commander Spock have been better off if he had taken the items aboard?"

"Spock is... well, you never know how it is with Spock. He has his own way of doing things. He'd probably calculated to the milligram the maximum payload he was willing to carry and, when our presents didn't map into his little equation, he discreetly set them aside." He continued to look thoughtful.

Maggie's heart pounded. She had heard about the former... disagreements between Kirk and his First Officer. She said carefully, "You don't agree with his choice?"

"Hey, it's his vacation. He can do what he likes." Kirk threw off his preoccupied mood, and gave her a reassuring smile. "So, what do you want to see first, your quarters or the bridge?"

Maggie smiled. "Do you mean I have the captain of the _Enterprise_ as my personal tour guide?"

"Hey, it's not every day I get an addition to my bridge crew. You deserve a little personal attention, don't you think?"

Maggie felt a warm glow suffuse her. She liked the way he said that: an _addition_. "Addition," not "temporary replacement". She began to think she might do all right during this assignment after all.

She didn't attempt to hide her eagerness. "The bridge, please."

Kirk laughed. "I knew you were a woman after my own heart." He bowed toward the nearest turbolift. "After you."

The door opened, and Maggie was nearly run down by a middle-sized man who bounced out of it, whistling. He pulled himself up short just in time to avoid a collision, grasping Maggie's arm as she stumbled back.

"Whoa, lass. Steady on!" He gave Kirk a rueful grin. "Sorry, Captain. I keep forgetting how crowded this ship can be, even on the lower decks."

"That's no problem, Mr. Scott," Kirk said equably. "I'm pleased to see that you're in a good mood—or haven't you heard?"

Mr. Scott—_Montgomery Scott_, Maggie thought, recognizing him from the vids—threw back his head and laughed. "About Spock's little trick? Aye, I heard it." He shrugged. "I shouldnae worry too much. He generally seems to know what he's about—in some universes more than others."

The odd remark had Maggie look at him keenly, but his attention had been captured by the captain. She glanced Kirk's way to see him assuming a casual expression—but it seemed she had just caught the tail end of what might have been a hard look from him in Mr. Scott's direction.

"Oh, he'll be all right," said Mr. Scott dismissively, just as if there hadn't been an awkward pause. "It's a long shot he'd need the laser beacon anyway. The shuttle has a built-in homing device; that'll guide us to him through almost any surface conditions. He'd only need the beacon if he wanted to contact us away from the shuttle _and_ needed a booster to pierce local interference, which you must admit is an unlikely occurrence."

"Yeah. I don't think Spock picked a deserted planet for his vacation because he had a pressing desire to talk to people."

"Aye." Mr. Scott shook his head, and then perked up. "But—look at me, forgetting my manners." He reached for Maggie's hand. "You must be the new science officer."

"Margory Mallory," she responded, shaking.

Mr. Scott cocked his head. "It's almost a poem, that."

Maggie laughed ruefully. "I know, isn't it awful? My parents must have been in an alliterative mood that day." She gave him a wry smile. "Call me Maggie."

"Aye, I will, and it's a pleasure to have you aboard. Are we meeting your expectations so far?"

Maggie hesitated. "Uh..."

Mr. Scott shot a concerned look at the captain. Kirk said carefully, "She ran into McCoy before she got ten steps off the shuttle."

"Right after..?"

"Yeah."

Mr. Scott winced. "I'll wager he wasn't exactly singing for joy."

"Try caterwauling."

"Ouch. Still, it won't last long. He'll be his sweet self again before... That is, after..." He exchanged a lengthy look with Kirk. "Well, after we get him good and drunk."

Kirk smiled and turned Maggie's way. "Try not to worry about it, Ensign Mallory. People's first few minutes aboard the _Enterprise_ aren't usually so dramatic."

"What are ye telling the poor child?" Scott cried. "Have ye no integrity at all?" He turned toward an astonished Maggie with a serious expression. "When _I _first beamed aboard the _Enterprise_, lass, I materialized inside a cooling tank. Spent my first 60 seconds rushing through the hydroshafts heading toward the turbines."

Maggie looked wide-eyed at Kirk, who only shrugged. "It's true."

"I'd ha' been chopped to bits if the captain here had'nae opened the release valve. Fell 15 feet onto my face, but my looks are no worse than they were, so there's no harm done."

Margie's gaze shifted from one to the other, uncertain whether to believe them. Kirk's embarrassed manner rather led her to believe that the tale, unlikely as it sounded, was true. She began to feel lucky that she'd arrived by shuttlecraft.

Scott turned back toward Kirk. "So don't ye be telling stories to people about how calm it is aboard the _Enterprise_. It sets completely the wrong expectation."

Kirk seemed torn between amusement and mild annoyance, but he nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Mr. Scott. I will take your remarks under advisement."

Scott nodded as if satisfied, and then turned back toward Maggie. "Be sure to let me know if you need anything—changes to your quarters, special equipment, anything o' that nature. I or one of my lads will be happy to see to it."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Scott."

"Well, I'd best be moving along." He winked, and started jauntily down the hall. "Enjoy your first day, lass!"

"I am already. Thank you!"

Kirk smiled and inclined his head toward the open turbolift. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Maggie felt giddy as she preceded him aboard. She took the grip and ordered, "Bridge." The sudden acceleration sent the butterflies in her stomach dancing.

The bridge of the _Enterprise_. At any moment, she'd be there!


	8. Chekov misunderstands

Nyota kept her ears open, so she was ready when she heard the turbolift doors part and Kirk's voice announce, "Here we are!"

Nyota turned in her chair to take in the newcomer's appearance. What she saw mildly surprised her. Science Officer Margory Mallory was tiny. She had a trim figure and short red hair, with just enough length to give it softness. Her eyes were wide and light in color, and she had a scattering of freckles across her button nose. Her youthful face was bright with excitement.

Kirk had his hand on her back as he directed her toward the forward consoles. Nyota's gaze slid from the new arrival to their commanding officer, searching for the telltale signs that Kirk had made yet another conquest. Thankfully, she didn't find any overt evidence of such. Ensign Mallory did seem enthusiastic to the point of palpitations, but her excitement seemed more related to her merely being on the bridge than due to any specific person's company.

Nyota turned back to her station, moderately satisfied. In her view, it spoke well for Mallory that she hadn't instantly fallen for the captain's reputed charms. Still, it was early to leap to any conclusions. Nyota intended to be patient and see how the next few days developed.

Kirk guided his charge near the forward viewscreen. "I'd like you to meet our chief helmsman for the _Enterprise_, Mr. Sulu."

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Mallory."

"Sulu is also filling in as First Officer while Mr. Spock is away. So you'll have to tread carefully around him."

"I don't expect to be a problem, sir," Mallory responded, with a deeper voice than Nyota had anticipated. She had expected something more light and girly. "I generally get along well with everybody."

"Well, that's good," responded Kirk, "because, as you've seen, we can be a pretty touchy bunch."

"Yes, ve do touch each other sometimes," Chekov interjected, misunderstanding the idiom. "But, but—" Nyota sneaked a glance over her shoulder, to enjoy the stunned look on the others' faces. "It is alvays appropriate touching. As in, 'Hello, Ms. Mallory!'" He gave her a light punch on the forearm in poor imitation of the shoulder slap that Kirk was always giving everybody—much to Spock's annoyance.

Nyota spun back to her station, covering her mouth to hold in her laugh. Two seats down, Ensign Lo was collapsed over her station in silent giggles.

Kirk's voice was filled with amusement. "And this is our navigator, Mr. Chekov."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chekov." Mallory sounded as if she, too, were keeping in a chuckle.

"Chekov is seventeen," Kirk added quietly. Nyota peeked over her shoulder to see him giving an apologetic look to Mallory.

Mallory took it in stride. "So I've heard." She smiled at the navigator, who continued to squirm with embarrassment. "Well, Mr. Chekov—" She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "It's good to be aboard!"

Chekov visibly relaxed. "Thank you, Science Officer."

Kirk put a hand on the small of Mallory's back to guide her toward the rear of the bridge. Hmm, Chekov had been right about the touching. There seemed to be an excessive amount of it concerning the new arrival, compared to the regular staff. Kirk said (in a gentler voice than he ever used with Nyota), "I'd like you to meet some other officers you'll be working closely with."

Behind him, Sulu was murmuring something to Chekov, but only the navigator's whisper carried. "But he said ve vere _touchy_. I didn't vant her to think she'd landed in a ship full of sexual deviants."

With their backs safely to the navigator, both Kirk and Mallory hastily put up a hand to cover their laugh. Biting back her smirk, Nyota turned partly in her chair so that Kirk could see she was in the same agonized condition. He acknowledged her difficulty with a twinkling eye, and then directed Mallory toward the engineering station.

"Ensign Lo," he said, "our Engineering liaison." The words were professional enough, but Kirk still sounded as if he were trying not to laugh.

Lo could hardly speak. "Pleased to meet you," she giggled, shaking Mallory's hand.

"Likewise," Mallory responded, fighting laughter of her own.

Kirk next approached Nyota. "And, of course, you'll be working with one of the finest communications officers in the fleet: Lieutenant Uhura."

Mallory actually blushed slightly as she shook Nyota's hand. "I'm very glad to meet you, ma'am."

Nyota smiled. "Thank you." She found herself liking Mallory more and more.

"The work you've been doing is just fantastic. I look forward to discussing it with you in detail."

Nyota was puzzled. "I thought your specialty was astrophysics."

"Oh," Mallory laughed and blushed again. "A science officer is interested in everything."

Nyota relaxed. "Of course. I should have realized." She and Mallory exchanged smiles.

"And in between your two charming crewmates," Kirk continued, "is what you're really here for: the science station."

Mallory's eyes lit up. She placed a hand lightly on the panel, almost caressing it. Nyota hid her amusement. There was no question that Mallory was well-suited to her job. Only a true science geek would get that love light in her eyes simply by gazing at an instrument panel.

"So," Mallory murmured, running her fingers lightly along the edge of the console, "this is where he sits."

Nyota's smile froze. A prickle of alarm crept up her spine, issuing a Red Alert.

"Yes, that's Commander Spock's station," Kirk replied, apparently not noticing anything unusual in the phrasing of Mallory's observation. "Now, it's yours." He smiled. "Don't tell me, you want to change a few things."

"Oh, no!" Mallory looked at Kirk as if he'd just uttered blasphemy. She actually moved (consciously or not) to stand protectively in front of the panel. "I'd read about the enhancements Commander Spock ordered for the _Enterprise_. He was there for the initial design all the way through final delivery. I wouldn't _dream_ of altering any improvements he made. In fact…" She chuckled self-consciously. "I'd been trying to implement some of them aboard the _Lao-Tse,_ based on the diagrams on file—with indifferent success, I'm sorry to admit."

"Well, well, Ensign Mallory." Kirk gave her an appreciative gaze. "I had no idea you were such a technophile."

"I'm no engineer. Not really," she added, with an apologetic glance at Lo. "But something like this, because it so directly affects my work, is different. A science officer's results are only as good as the data they're based on. So instrument sensitivity is crucial. And everyone who's attended the Academy knows that Commander Spock is the best."

Nyota was doing her best to control her irritation. _Interested in everything, indeed!_ Mallory's tone, particularly the reverential way she spoke the words "Commander Spock," set Nyota's teeth on edge. She kept her gaze fixed on her own instrument panel, seeing nothing.

"He does have that reputation," Kirk said equably. "But you have a few qualifications of your own."

Mallory laughed. "Oh, I'm not remotely in Commander Spock's league—as I'm sure you're aware. But, as long as you don't mind working with a mere human—"

"Ensign Mallory," Kirk said sternly, "everyone presently aboard this ship is a 'mere human.' Please don't apologize for what you are—or who you aren't."

Mallory dropped her gaze. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Kirk straightened. "Well, would you like to see your quarters now, or settle in here?"

The eager light was back in Mallory's eyes. "If you don't mind, sir, I'd rather stay here. Being able to see and touch the panel in person is different from just reading about it. I'd like to take some time and really familiarize myself with the Commander's setup."

_I'll bet that's not the only thing about the Commander you'd like to familiarize yourself with_, Nyota thought harshly. Her annoyance caused her to stab a button harder than she'd intended.

"Fine," Kirk said, and raised his voice to address Nyota. "Lieutenant, would you transfer the orders to Ensign Mallory's station?"

Nyota replied with professional restraint. "Yes, sir." She hit the appropriate transmission controls.

Mallory climbed into Spock's chair with unseemly haste, in Nyota's opinion, watching the screen tensely. The orders appeared almost instantly. Mallory read aloud, "I, Commander Spock, relinquish command of this station to Science Officer Margory Mallory, transfer to be effective Stardate 2258.133." She stopped, then looked over her shoulder at Kirk with a puzzled expression. "That's it?"

Kirk quirked an eyebrow. "You expected something more?"

Mallory hesitated. "_Is_ there any more? I mean, this is the _whole_ transfer order? No… mission parameters, summaries— that kind of thing?"

Nyota gave the captain a knowing look, but Kirk affected not to notice. "I don't _see_ any other matters mentioned on the transfer order, Ensign. Do you?"

Mallory stared at the terse message. Then she slumped back in her chair and clapped a hand over her heart. "_Thank God!_"

Nyota froze.

Kirk suppressed a smile, but his eyes shone. "Yes, Ensign?"

"_What a relief!_" Mallory literally caught her breath, then straightened in her chair to face Kirk. "All the way here on the shuttle, I was worrying about this. I kept imagining that the Commander would have left me some hugely complicated project that would have gone on for page after page. I was terrified that I'd spend the entire mission trying to make sense out of his half-finished notes, only to thoroughly embarrass myself upon his return. But _this_—" She waved her hand at the screen, still displaying the concise message. "This is the _easiest_ transfer order I've ever seen. I wouldn't have expected that from a Vulcan. I mean, from a half-Vulcan. I mean, from Commander Spock. He had this _killer_ reputation at the Academy."

Kirk gave Nyota an I-told-you-so smirk. "Well, Commander Spock can be quite accommodating of human needs, once he understands the situation. He wouldn't _dream_ of burying you under reams of notes."

"Still, that was unexpectedly sensitive of him," said Mallory. "He sounds like an excellent officer."

"One of the best," Kirk drawled, as Nyota turned abruptly away. His smugness was insufferable.

Having sufficiently amused himself, Kirk pulled himself upright. "Well, I'll leave you to your scientific explorations. When you're ready, perhaps Lieutenant Uhura would be kind enough to walk you down to your quarters."

Nyota's heart skipped a beat. _Not that!_ she mentally screamed. She could take sitting next to Mallory— she really could. Or rather, she thought she could. She could be as professional as the next person. But to take the woman to her quarters, to listen to a string of "What is Commander Spock _really_ like?" questions— that would be beyond her. She'd never get through it without ripping Mallory into a thousand sarcastic ribbons.

Before Nyota could respond, Ensign Lo piped up. "I'll do it, Captain."

Kirk looked surprised, then turned her way. "Thank you, Ensign."

"No problem." She smiled winningly at Mallory. "I'm always happy to help my fellow shipmates." Her smile appeared genuinely welcoming. Nyota couldn't have pulled off such a look in a million years. She wondered how much Lo's suspicions had been awakened in the wake of Mallory's gushing; regardless, Nyota felt immense gratitude toward her.

Although Lo's interjection was most likely an act, Mallory fell for it. She gave Lo an equally warm, and probably truly genuine, smile back. "Thanks so much! I'll be happy to know all of you better, too."

_Some of us more than others_, Nyota growled mentally.

"That's great," Kirk said, his gaze drifting uncertainly from Lo to Nyota. She kept her eyes fixed on her panel. "I'll just leave you then to… carry on."

"Thank you, Captain!" Mallory beamed at Spock's console, stroking the nearest control panel with a fingertip. The motion put Nyota in full revulsion mode. "I'm going to be in heaven for days."

_And I'm going to be in hell for weeks_, Nyota silently added. If she weren't on the bridge, she would have shrieked from frustration.

Beyond Mallory, Lo sneaked Nyota a sympathetic look. Nyota nodded briefly, acknowledging it, and attempted to pull herself together.

"So."

It took a moment for Nyota to realize that Mallory was addressing her. She started. "Yes?"

"I hear that you and Commander Spock are pretty good friends."

Nyota gaped. But Mallory didn't seem put off by her reaction. Her expression was open, questioning... _interested_.

Nyota briskly turned back to her panel. "Yes, we are."

"He's pretty cool, huh? I mean, once you get to know him. I never did at the Academy. We were in the same college, but our schedules never lined up. I'd see him, of course, marching here and there in his gray uniform, looking so intent. But that's different from knowing somebody personally."

Nyota started writing down some figures at random, to give her hands something to do.

"Like this transfer order," Mallory said. "I wouldn't have expected that."

Nyota could contain herself no longer. "As a matter of fact," she said quietly, "the commander had intended to leave you detailed notes. But Captain Kirk overruled him."

"Oh." Mallory sat back, then ran a finger down the edge of her panel. "Well, notes would have been good, too."

Nyota sighed, then spun in her chair to face Mallory. "Look," she said softly. "Commander Spock and I have a good, working relationship. I'm sure that you and _I_ can have a good, working relationship. The common denominator here is that we will have a _working_ relationship. Not a personal one, not one where we gossip about our colleagues." She held Mallory's gaze, trying to emphasize her point without being unkind. "Do I make myself clear, Ensign Mallory?"

Mallory blushed so her face was as bright as her hair. "Yes, of course! I'm sorry. It's just that... well, never mind. It's not important. Don't worry. It won't happen again."

Nyota nodded tersely. "Thank you, Ensign. I appreciate that."

"Because I really want to do well here. This is such an opportunity." Mallory looked truly contrite. "I don't want to screw it up."

Nyota softened a little. "Don't worry, you haven't. Not yet. And I know how you feel. I felt that way when I first came aboard, too."

"Then you _do_ understand." Mallory sighed. "I'm glad."

Nyota felt mildly guilty. Perhaps Mallory just had a little trouble with the interpersonal bit. That was hardly unknown among technical people. Kindly, she said, "Why don't you take a little time and go over your station? I'll be happy to answer any questions you have related to the equipment."

"I will. Thank you, Lieutenant."

"My pleasure."

Mallory turned back to her array of settings and readouts. Relieved, Nyota resumed her own work.

For a while. Mallory began throwing toggles, hopping up to read the result, sitting back down, changing position, doing it again. Finally, after standing and sitting and adjusting and turning at least six times, she asked Nyota, "So, does Commander Spock usually sit or stand at his station?"

Nyota put a hand to her face.

Thirty-five more days until Spock returned. How was she going to last?


	9. Uhura is miserable

_Enterprise_ to _Galileo_

Stardate 2258.133

Dear Spock,

Thank you so much for taking such excellent care of the jungle boots I gave you. Due to your protective action, they will be pristine and ready for your next adventure, assuming you survive to have one. I really can't thank you enough.

Dr. McCoy is equally grateful. We could hear his gratitude all over the ship. Kirk is philosophical about the event, and Mr. Scott has likewise taken no offense. He says it will be an interesting test of the ship's sensors to locate you through a turbulent atmosphere with no signal amplifier on the remote end. I think he's looking forward to the challenge.

Your replacement has arrived and has dived into her duties with the enthusiasm worthy of a recent graduate. She seems particularly enamored of the enhancements you had designed into your console. She has been glued to your station all morning, investigating the controls one by one, and playing over old recordings of yours to make sure she understands how to get the best operation out of the equipment. I think she'd still be there if Captain Kirk hadn't dragged her away to have lunch with him and Dr. McCoy. He said the doctor owed her an apology, although he didn't say for what.

I know this might sound desperate, but do you mind if I say how much I miss you already? I know you probably haven't even achieved orbit around Emagious III yet, but it feels as if you've been gone for weeks. Enjoy yourself, my dear one. I'm thinking about you.

Your own,

Nyota

* * *

Nyota hunched miserably in the main cafeteria after her shift was over. It was her usual dinner hour, but she wasn't remotely hungry. "I'll never survive," she moaned.

Ensign Lo, who'd accompanied her down from the bridge, smiled kindly. "It's not that bad."

Nyota looked up disbelievingly. "Not that bad? 'Does Commander Spock sit or stand while he's working'— not that _bad_?"

"It was a reasonable question."

Lo kept her voice down, out of deference to the crowded room. Comfortingly, the main object of Nyota's concern wasn't likely to overhear them. Mallory sat at the big corner table with Sulu and Chekov. The three of them were having a spirited conversation, interrupted by many bouts of laughter, as they revisited the "touchy bunch" incident of the morning. Chekov was laughing as heartily as the rest of them over his slip. Their good-natured banter drew so much interest that they were continually enticing other off-duty personnel into the growing mob.

Nyota hadn't the patience to observe them. She was preoccupied with her own concerns. "_Reasonable!_ How could Mallory's question be considered reasonable? I have never in my life inquired as to how another person _sat_ while they performed the communications function."

"Mallory's short," Lo replied.

Nyota merely pouted, slouching over the table with her hands under her chin to prop up her head. She was too depressed to sit upright.

Lo took the initiative to elaborate. "Mallory's short; Spock is fairly tall. He designed the instrument panel, not for some random 'average' science officer, but for himself. So the tolerances aren't standard. Mallory was having a hard time seeing some of the readouts while she was seated, particularly from the viewer. It was perfectly reasonable for her to ask about how Spock operated the station."

Nyota mulled Lo's statement. "I _suppose_ that's possible," she admitted grudgingly. "But why does she have to play his record tapes over and over?"

Lo shrugged. "She's probably just trying to catch up on the mission. Anybody would do that."

"But she watches the visual playback. Why does she need to _see_ Spock talking to hear what he says?"_ Over and over again_, she neglected to add.

Lo seemed unimpressed with this observation as well. "Probably because Spock recorded the messages with video on. That _is_ the normal method of creating log entries."

"You find nothing strange about her behavior?" Nyota challenged. "Nothing odd at all about her saying, 'Ooh! So this is where he sits?'"

Lo grinned. "I admit she's a little over-enthusiastic, but she's that way about everybody. I mean, look at her."

Another burst of laughter sounded from Mallory's table. Chekov, bright red, was laughing helplessly. Mallory was nearly falling out of her chair, while Sulu grinned at both of them.

Nyota frowned. Mallory was certainly ingratiating herself with the rest of the bridge crew. She tried to put her dissatisfaction into words. "She keeps touching his console."

"As opposed to everybody else, who only _looks_ at theirs."

"Not the controls; the _console_. She keeps... running her hands over it."

Lo rolled her eyes. "No, she doesn't."

"She does! I've seen her." Nyota shivered. "It's creepy. It's like... she wants to touch where Spock touched. As if she wants to pick up his finger germs or something."

"You're imagining things!"

"Oh, yeah?" Nyota leaned forward. "What about her talking about watching Spock walk around campus in his tight, gray uniform? I didn't imagine _that_."

"Be fair." Lo sipped her tea. "Mallory said nothing about his uniform being tight."

"She shouldn't have been mentioning his uniform at all."

Engineer Nelson, at the next table, turned around in her chair. "Why not? I loved that uniform."

Nyota started. "How long have you been listening?"

"Not long. But the words 'tight, gray uniform' got my attention." Nelson grinned. "You're talking about the one Spock wore as an instructor, right?"

"Yes," Nyota answered uncertainly.

"I _loved_ him in that uniform. Man, did that ever draw attention to his... attributes!" Her fellow diners murmured agreement.

Nyota pursed her lips. "That's no way to talk about your commanding officer."

"He wasn't my commanding officer then. But you can't deny that Spock in his tight uniform was easy on the eyes." She winked at her tablemates. "He still is."

"Yeah, but that gray uniform definitely added something," Nelson's best friend Chu interjected.

"That's right," Technician Karlsson put in beside her. "It really showed off his posture. In fact," she turned to face Nyota more directly, "I think that's probably why the two of you got together."

Nyota felt affronted. "Because of his _uniform_?"

"Because of your posture. I think you two had the best posture in all of Starfleet Academy." Karlsson's tablemates strongly endorsed this opinion.

But Nyota felt unsettled. "I can't believe you were all watching Spock walk around in his uniform."

"Darlin'," Nelson answered, "there was no other way to watch him— at least for us." She snickered, as did her cohorts.

Nyota set her jaw. "That's not funny."

"Oh, relax," Lo said, patting her forearm. "There's no law against looking at a well-made man."

"It's not like anybody would try to steal him," said Nelson. "We know we'd get our heads handed to us on a plate."

"Try telling that to Mallory," Nyota snapped— and then instantly regretted her words.

Nelson's eyebrows went way up. "Soooo, it's like that, is it?"

Lo sipped her tea again. "In Nyota's mind, it is."

Everyone in Nelson's party turned to watch Mallory at the other table. Chu muttered, "How come she's hanging all over Chekov, if she's got the hots for Spock?"

"I didn't say she had the hots for him," Nyota retorted angrily.

"You said she was caressing his console," Lo pointed out.

Nelson's eyes lit up. "_No!_ Really?" She bit back a grin. "This keeps getting better and better."

Nyota began to worry. Nelson was a huge blabbermouth; if Nyota didn't head this off quick, it would be all over the ship. "_Please_ don't say anything. I mean it. I've just—I had a bad day and I'm overreacting. It's like Lo says; there's nothing in it."

"Seriously," Lo confirmed, looking bored. "There's nothing in it."

"Of course. There's nothing in it." Nelson shrugged, and then casually started to stand.

Nyota put a hand on her arm, alarmed. "Where you going?"

"Over to introduce myself to Mallory," Nelson said, as her tablemates rose to join her.

Nyota felt her heartbeat kick into overdrive.

"Seriously," Lo repeated, now looking threatening. "Don't say anything. Nyota's under enough pressure as it is."

Nelson feigned astonishment. "Of _course_ I wouldn't say anything! Who do you think I am, a first-year cadet? No, I'm just a friendly project lead in engineering who wants to get better acquainted with the bridge officers she'll be working professionally with. That's all. And, if it happens to come up in conversation, ask her what she thinks about Commander Spock in his tight, gray uniform."

"Don't say a word!" Lo growled.

Nelson's amused glance traveled between Nyota and Lo. "Hmm. I thought you were exaggerating, but now I'm starting to think that there's really something in this."

Nyota reluctantly tried one last tack. "Listen, I hardly know Mallory. It isn't fair to put her on the spot for something that's probably just my imagination."

"Maybe not, but it sounds like there's a lot of _great_ imagination running loose around here."

"Besides," Nyota hesitated. "If you say anything, she's going to _know_ it came from me and... I dressed her down earlier today for asking too many personal questions." She met Nelson's gaze unhappily. "I told her that people didn't gossip about each other on this ship."

Nelson stared at her. "What ship have _you_ been serving on?"

"Nelson," said Lo, "let it go." Then, more firmly, "Don't make me pull rank."

Nelson threw up her hands. "Fine. I won't say anything about Commander Spock. But Mallory does sound interesting, and I'd really like to meet her."

"I'll know what you say!" Lo called after her, as Nelson and her clutch of four moved away. They melted into the throng around Mallory's table. The laughter and buzz got louder.

Lo turned back to Nyota and smiled. "She won't say anything. She likes to _play_ the troublemaker, but she does toe the line."

"Thanks."

Lo shot a look at the replicators. "So, are you ready to eat yet?"

"I think... I'd better check my personal messages first."

Lo gave her a wry look. "You only sent Spock a message during lunch break. He won't even have received it yet by subspace."

"Well, what if he sent me a message the day before? It might be here now."

Lo sighed, then patted Nyota's arm sympathetically. "All right, but don't spend all your time holed up in your quarters waiting for him to write. You have friends. Use them."

"Thanks. I will."

Nyota exited with rather less dignity than normal, but no one was observing her, and it didn't matter in any case. There was no way she was going to remain in a room watching Nelson prowling the edge of the crowd like a wolf, ready to pounce on Mallory at the first opportunity. She couldn't bear to see one more knowing smirk, or hear one more word about Spock's tight, gray uniform. It was hard enough missing him in the first place, without having everyone bring up images that made his loss even more difficult to bear.

Nyota almost whimpered as she slipped into the hall. Behind her, the crowd erupted once again in laughter—which the rec room door obligingly cut off behind her.


	10. Spock prepares

_Galileo _to_ Enterprise_

Stardate 2258.136

My dearest Nyota,

It pleases me that you derived so much satisfaction from my careful storage of your jungle boots. Please advise Captain Kirk that, had I taken all your offerings aboard, I would have expended fuel equivalent to 2.63 low orbital passes in ferrying the additional equipment here and back. I elected to conserve fuel at the expense of protecting my feet. If this choice proves to have negative consequences, you may ridicule me to your satisfaction upon my return. And if Mr. Scott does not realize that the shuttlecraft is equipped with a perfectly adequate homing beacon, he has no business being our chief engineer.

As the stardate of this message implies, I have achieved orbit around Emagious III. It distresses me to report that the atmosphere, while somewhat higher in concentration of nitrogen and methane than Earth baseline, appears entirely breathable, just as the long-range surveys had indicated. Furthermore, there is no significant interference from the atmosphere that prevents me from making acceptable scans of the planet's surface, or would lead one to conclude that communications would be interfered with in any way. Please console Captain Kirk and Mr. Scott as best you can.

I have only begun my initial low-orbit survey. There are three major landmasses in the southern region, two in the north. I am attaching preliminary scan data. I will send you another subspace pulse when I determine upon which continent I will set down first. Expect intermittent communications, as I anticipate spending much time exploring the surface on foot, and want to conserve the shuttlecraft's battery power as much as possible.

I am pleased that my replacement displays such an admirable devotion to her duty. I trust the days will pass with their customary alacrity.

Spock

* * *

Spock completed precisely 16 orbital passes before deciding upon his initial landing site. It was shoddy work by anyone's standards, but Spock was impatient to undertake his real purpose in visiting Emagious III. Although he believed that providing a concrete reason for his journey had significantly improved his chances of getting his leave approved, Spock had not come here to survey the planet.

He chose the largest of the three southern continents— the one whose land mass coincided most exactly with the planet's equatorial region. Emagious III was far wetter than Vulcan, but nearly as warm. He should be able to adapt to its requirements with reasonable ease.

Prudence dictated that he make a low aerial pass of the area he intended to traverse on foot. Spock might be impatient, but he didn't consider himself foolhardy. The fly-over revealed a nearly flat terrain covered with nearly flat vegetation. It seemed that, in Emagious III's higher gravity, few plant forms were willing to reach for the sky, at least in this region. Kilometer after kilometer revealed a rolling landscape of fungi, lichens, and plasmodial slime molds, their vivid colors muted by the predawn mist. Overall, the region appeared most conducive to his needs.

In the center of the newly surveyed area, he settled the Galileo onto its landing skids and powered down. He ran a detailed atmospheric check, followed by a routine scan for toxins. All readouts reported clear. He then took a tricorder reading, trying to determine if any of the large quadrupeds that he had noted during his last orbital pass lingered anywhere in the vicinity. Again, the readout showed negative.

He cracked the seal on the hatch. The hot, dry air of the shuttle's interior was replaced by a wave of warm, wet air, laced with the pungent scent of methane— doubtless the legacy of recent volcanic activity. Spock carried the tricorder with him, and ducked out the hatch to stand on the topmost step of the shuttlecraft.

He had landed near the solar terminator, the so-called "gray line" that separated the planet's day and night sides, to give himself the maximum daylight hours available to commence his activities. As a result, the silent land was still wrapped in twilight, tendrils of mist curling up from the ground to weave themselves hypnotically through the air.

Spock stepped down onto the terrain; the plantlife squelched under his boot. His foot landed with more force than he had anticipated. The increased gravity of the planet was evident, although not oppressive. Even so, Spock would have to be careful how he held himself until he adjusted to its demands.

He ran the tricorder over the groundcover to get an accurate reading. As suspected, many of the organisms were similar in structure to various forms of Labyrinthulomycota, intermixed with a substantial representation of individuals that were morphologically reminiscent of the Basidiomycota phylum of fungi. How fortunate.

After studying the readouts and finding nothing alarming, Spock broke off a piece of a specimen composed of a thick, flattened fruiting body that curled up at the edges. True to his plan, he had ingested nothing but water since his meal with Nyota four days ago. Now he touched this alien fragment to his tongue; it had a light, musky flavor. He put the piece into his mouth, and chewed.

The texture was somewhat rubbery, but in flavor it resembled the noble mushroom of the north Asian region of Earth. As was usual after a fast, the taste flooded his senses, almost intoxicating with its power. In addition to his body's response to nourishment was the mental exhilaration of tasting something entirely new, vaguely familiar aromas laced with strangeness.

A burst of energy surged through him and, with it, he felt the transformation—for with this act he had crossed the ineradicable step from being a mere observer to becoming a part of this world. It had happened; it was done. This new world was now a part of him, was even now being dispersed throughout his body by his bloodstream. Spock pondered the strangeness of life, how a person born on a desert planet parsecs away could now stand on a flattened alien landscape and sample a taste of mushroom.

He straightened and dusted his hands. Invigorating as the morsel was, he planned to partake of no more of it until it was patent that it produced no ill effects; with Spock's metabolism, that would take approximately 3 to 4 hours.

No matter. He had no particularly urgent need to eat. Now that Emagious III was proving so suitable for his needs, he was eager to get on with his plan.

He returned to the shuttlecraft and accessed the security locker. His phaser and communicator were inside; he would leave them here. The full-sized tricorder he had just used he added to the stash, then closed and locked the door. It was unlikely that any other spacefarers would happen upon the shuttlecraft in his absence, but Spock didn't want to let important equipment fall into the hands of some pirate if he could prevent it.

His uniform was next to go. He stripped it off, leaving his clothing in a neat pile in the pilot's chair. His boots he set side by side on the floor. He lifted his small pack out of the locker where he had stowed it. The ambient temperature was warm; it would grow hotter still as the day commenced. He wouldn't need much of the protective gear he'd brought with him.

He emptied the pack of clothing, setting the rolled bundle in the passenger seat where it magically expanded from its compact form into a complete wardrobe. From the pile, he selected his ultra-thin, all-weather shirt and a pair of long pants, in case he must bivouac somewhere. He rolled them into a tight bundle and opened the (now even smaller) pack. His portable medical kit, condenser, firestarter materials, Sulu's slingshot, and sonic repeller (because he had promised Nyota) were all tucked into their respective pockets to prevent their shifting. The multiplex tool and field tricorder nestled at the bottom of the pack; his bundle of clothing he tucked in on top.

He briefly debated taking a food supplement—then decided against it. Even if it turned out that the particular fungus he'd sampled proved disappointing, chances were that _some_ of the native plantlife would be edible. His entire pack now weighed nearly three kilograms; he did not want the extra weight. In this gravity, his body weight alone added an extra 8.3 kilograms to every step; he must be cautious about overtaxing his joints. Even another half kilogram of nonessential weight could prove burdensome over the course of a long journey.

He returned to the passenger seat, and selected the items he meant to wear. The first was an article of clothing compressed neatly into a roll about the size of his little finger. He shook it open to reveal its shape. It was a Vulcan _sahr-fek_, named after the running vine it resembled and the act for which it was used. The _sahr-fek_ was a kind of loincloth designed for long, rapid journeys over hot terrain. The functional part consisted of a thong secured by a slender flat band about the hips. Out of tradition, a flap of lightweight material, about a handspan wide, hung down at the front and back, the material extending a couple of centimeters below the crotch. The cloth had a base color of light brown, matching the material of the thong, but it was covered with bold patterns that indicated the symbols of his House, portrayed in muted colors.

He pulled the _sahr-fek_ into place, then settled the pack to ride just above it, low on his hips. He jumped a couple of times and ran in place, then resettled some of the items in his pack and tried again. He was satisfied when the pack held snugly to the small of his back and the items within remained secure despite vigorous movement.

He next donned the footwear that Nyota had observed. They slipped onto his feet snugly, like a tough, second skin. The tops rose about ankle high—certainly sufficient protection in this environment. He stood, and jogged in place again to test the fit. He was ready.

He turned to the control panel. He had sent a subspace pulse to Nyota only the day before, in response to hers. The pulse would take approximately 3.3 solar days to reach the _Enterprise_ given its present location, and the lag time would only increase as the _Enterprise_ continued on her mission. Nyota would not have received his response yet, but it was imperative that he send another before receiving her reply. For Dr. McCoy was certainly correct; prevention was better than any cure. He must set her mind at rest so that he could rest in turn.

He elected to record audio only. Excessive personal modesty was no part of his make-up, but he did not want to raise questions in Nyota's mind as to why he was sitting mostly naked in a shuttlecraft.

"_Galileo_ to _Enterprise_, Stardate 2458.137. My dearest Nyota, I have set down on the northernmost of the southern continents, approximately 2 degrees south of this planet's equator. Coordinates and aerial scan data are appended to this message. I am about to begin my on-site survey of the planet's surface. As previously stated, expect intermittent communications, as I will be conserving power. I will report again within approximately five days. Do not become alarmed if I do not immediately respond to a message. It is likely that I will make several forays from the shuttle, and possibly some of these might be of some duration. Initial field testing indicates that the vegetation is edible and the area insect-free. I regret to inform you that I have been unable to locate any bogs in the vicinity. I will remain vigilant in hopes that eventually one may appear. I trust that you are well, and are using the extra time to advantage. I look forward to our eventual reunion. Spock out."

Per standard procedure, Spock encrypted the message and its addendum, then sent it by low-priority subspace pulse. Nyota would receive it in approximately four days, depending on the _Enterprise_'s location; he hoped it would quiet some of her inevitable concerns.

That task done, he went over the control panel and turned most of the systems completely off, leaving active only the homing beacon and the security system that would recognize his personal access code. His tracking device that would guide him back to the shuttle (in the unlikely event it would be needed) was built into his field tricorder. For the immediate future, he would be completely on his own, with only the items that he carried on his body to sustain him.

Spock set the hatch to close behind him, and once again stepped down onto the moist terrain. The give of the unusual ground-cover was pleasant against his feet; the warm air caressed his skin. Even as the hatch sealed itself behind him, Spock closed his eyes in gratitude.

Most citizens of the Federation considered Vulcans to be thinking machines. There was some truth to this view; Vulcans did tend to pride themselves on their speed and clarity of thought. But they were not _merely_ thinking creatures, and this important addendum was too often overlooked. There were times where thought— logic, if you will— must be set aside. All things benefited from a rest, and the brain was no exception.

Some weeks ago, Spock had reached that point. Just as the mind could heal the body, so too could the body heal the mind. Spock had tried the former method, without success. Now it was time to invoke the latter—to simply shut down, and let nature take over. This was a time for thoughts to be suspended, to allow oneself to feel and experience nothing beyond the intake of breath, the tread of one's footfalls, the scents in the air and the textures beneath one's feet.

It was time to run.

A gleam of red streaked suddenly across the plain from the horizon, burnishing the floating banks of mist with a golden glow. Vapor began to smoke off the multicolored blotches that covered the dewy plain.

Spock put his back to the low-lying sun. Swiftly, strongly, he began to run.


	11. Kirk is useful

Kirk slouched in the command chair, wondering how much longer they'd be on star-mapping duty. It seemed to him that, if the _Enterprise_ was supposed to explore new worlds, they ought to be doing that. But every potential new world they'd discovered so far (two, to be precise) had been put on the hold list.

Kirk wondered why Starfleet Command wasn't sending them off to explore them. Maybe they had some other mission in mind for them, and they didn't want to commit the _Enterprise_ to something the scale of mapping a new world. (Although why they couldn't do a fly-by, Kirk didn't understand. The closest planet would only take them four days out of their assigned flight path. If Spock could go explore his world, it seemed only fair that Kirk could explore one, too.)

Or perhaps they were waiting for Spock to return, so the _Enterprise_ could enter that mission with its "proper" science officer. But that would mean they wouldn't go anywhere for another month; surely Starfleet wouldn't keep them out of the action for a whole month. It also seemed an unnecessarily harsh indictment against Mallory. If Starfleet didn't trust her qualifications, why did they assign her? What did the _Lao-Tse_ do when it encountered a new world? Send constant reports back to headquarters so someone else could look over the data?

No, it couldn't be Mallory. True, it was hard to evaluate her abilities when all they did was cruise the sector. But she was prompt and focused and gave adequate reports (perhaps not _highly_ adequate, not super-detailed the way Spock would have made them, but perfectly sufficient for their immediate needs).

Kirk made a face. He supposed he had gotten spoiled by having a Vulcan in that position. With Spock, every briefing, even if it was only on that day's star systems, turned into a thesis filled with more fun facts than Kirk would have imagined belonged to such ordinary stars. But perhaps that's what Spock did to keep himself alert on a routine mission; research every object to the nth degree, hunting for that one gem of data that would set it apart.

"We're coming up on an object, Captain," Sulu reported.

Kirk straightened in his chair. "Identification?"

Mallory had already jumped up to man her scanners. "Working."

Sulu and Chekov studied their respective boards. Kirk bit his lip, hoping they'd find something interesting. A time capsule from an unknown civilization. A mysterious craft with a shell impenetrable to their sensors. _Something_.

Then Sulu sat back. "Asteroid, Captain." He sounded almost apologetic.

"Confirmed," Mallory said a moment later. "Composition consistent with the last scanned system." She straightened to face Kirk's chair. "Looks like we found another rogue."

Kirk suppressed a sigh. "All right. Catalog its course and vital stats. Chekov, plot a course around it."

"Course already computed and... laid in, sir."

"Execute."

There was a pause. "Continuing course around object," Sulu reported.

"Acknowledged."

The bridge went silent again.

_Bored, bored, bored_. Kirk was bored, bored, bored. He had tons of administrivia to see to, but he wasn't in the mood for that. He wanted something exciting, something engaging, something that would alter human understanding for all time— or at least provide an afternoon's worth of distraction. Something _way_ more intriguing than providing routine patrol services for this sector—which his uneasy gut told him was the real reason the _Enterprise_ was stuck here doing next to nothing. He understood the need to provide a reassuring presence close to home in the wake of the Vulcan disaster; he really did. He just wished Starfleet would do it with somebody _else's_ ship.

Mallory had returned to her chair. Uhura hadn't reacted to the previous exchange— no reason to— but Kirk could feel her tension. She positively radiated brittleness. Mallory seemed not to notice; at least, she gave the appearance of being fully absorbed in whatever project she had carved out for herself. Of all his senior officers, she seemed the most content; perhaps the novelty of being aboard a new ship was enough to keep her occupied. But Uhura had been growing increasingly restive for the past three days.

At the moment, for instance, she was sitting rigidly in her chair, taut as a wire except for her right leg, which jiggled rapidly in place. She kept glancing in Mallory's direction, but Kirk couldn't see what might be provoking Uhura's interest. Mallory was absorbed in some task, listening to something through her earpiece and intently touching various controls. She seemed completely engrossed in her own little world.

Kirk went back to staring out the main viewscreen. Perhaps he shouldn't have had Chekov plot a course around that last asteroid. He could have run battle drills—practiced flybys and phaser targeting until they blew the rock out of the sky, leaving nothing in its place a pulverized cloud of dust. He vowed not to let such an opportunity pass him by again.

Uhura's quiet snarl drew his attention to the back of the bridge. "That's the _fourth time_," she murmured venomously.

Mallory looked her way and removed her earpiece. "Pardon?"

Uhura faced her, giving Mallory much the same expression that she first gave Kirk in that Iowa bar ages ago when she was telling him, basically, to drop dead. "You've played that same recording three times already; do you really need to hear it _four_?"

Mallory looked amazed. "I have the volume on one. How did you even know what I was playing?"

Uhura's voice sounded as strained as her nerves. "I'm a communications specialist. I'm _trained_ to pick up and decipher faint signals."

Mallory looked uneasy. "So, every time I play a tape, you can hear it?"

Uhura pushed a few buttons. "Every... single... time."

"Wow." Mallory looked uncomfortable. "I didn't realize you could hear that."

Uhura concentrated on writing down whatever vital message she was making up at the moment. Probably a list of ways she was going to hurt Mallory as soon as their shift ended. "Perhaps you'd like to play something else—some other favorite Spock tape to pass the time."

"I'm not just passing time. The fact is, I'm simply amazed at the sensitivity that Commander Spock was getting out of these instruments. His spectral analysis is as clean—well, _more_ clean—than anything I'd seen recorded on a field vessel before."

"Really?" Uhura's cool response did not fool Kirk. Her tone told him that this was just another way of Uhura telling Mallory to drop dead.

"No question." Apparently Mallory was unable to recognize personal abuse when she was hot in pursuit of a technical topic. "Honestly, I haven't seen readings this clear outside of the Vulcan Science Academy."

Uhura's attention was finally genuinely engaged. "You visited the Vulcan Science Academy?"

Mallory chuckled self-consciously. "Hardly. A mere cadet like me? I wouldn't have got through the door. But I was able to hear T'Salik speak when she came over with the Vulcan delegation last year. They were doing amazing work over there, simply _amazing_." Mallory's voice trailed off. "I wonder if she was still traveling—you know, was off-world. When... it happened."

A silence descended over the bridge. Kirk shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Everyone else looked thoughtful... or depressed.

What a nice, cheerful shift. Perhaps he ought to get to that paperwork after all.

Mallory went back to her controls.

"_Four times?_" Uhura exploded.

Mallory blushed slightly, but answered calmly. "As I said, Commander Spock was getting amazing sensitivity out of these readings. I haven't..." Her blush deepened. "I'm not able to get quite the same results. I was hoping that, if I went through his last analysis and tried to duplicate the settings he was making in the order he was making them in, I'd be able to get that super fine-tuning he was achieving."

Uhura was merciless. "You were going to do all that... by listening to his _taped report_?"

"I'm sorry that this bothers you, Lieutenant. But I don't have any other resources available, and no one except Commander Spock has ever used this equipment."

Kirk rose abruptly. "Thank you, Ensign Mallory. That shows fine initiative on your part. By all means, keep up the good work."

Mallory nearly sagged with relief. "Thank you, sir."

Kirk stopped just short of Uhura's station. "Lieutenant, I'd like to discuss the message you got yesterday from... the Tellarite Embassy."

Uhura looked surprised, as well she might. "Captain, I've already relayed the entire contents of that message."

"I realize that, Lieutenant, but I have a few additional thoughts I'd like to share. Would you mind accompanying me to Briefing Room Two?"

"Certainly, sir."

Primly she locked down her station and collected her PADD. Her relief slid into the chair almost before she was out of it—whether out of trying to impress the captain with his promptness or because he was also excruciatingly bored and thought he might as well practice his turn-over efficiency, Kirk couldn't tell. He led the way to the turbolift and waited for Uhura to join him, which she did half a second later.

Kirk turned and gripped the control. "Briefing Room Two," he said blandly.

The doors closed and the turbolift started to move. Letting out all the exasperation he had held contained on the bridge, he growled, "What _is_ it with you and Mallory?"

Uhura stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"What do I _mean_?" Kirk sincerely hoped Security was not scanning the turbolift at the moment; his animated gestures were bound to provoke interest. With an effort he damped himself down. "What I mean is that she can't say or do _anything_ without drawing your criticism. Now, what is it? Has she insulted you in some way?"

Uhura looked away. "No, sir."

"Is she incompetent?"

"Not that I can tell, sir. It's nothing like that."

"Then _what_?"

Uhura simply stared at the panel across the way.

Kirk rubbed his eyes. "Look, Lieutenant, I know you. You aren't upset by trifles. Mallory has got your goat for some reason, and I want to know why."

Looking hesitant, Uhura opened her mouth to speak—and then the turbolift doors opened. Kirk gestured for her to precede him out of the lift. In silence they walked the few steps down the hall toward Briefing Room Two. Kirk made no attempt to speak until the doors were safely closed behind them.

He turned toward Uhura, looking stern. "Well?"

Cautiously, Uhura said, "She hasn't done anything _overt_."

Kirk felt his tolerance growing thin. "All right, what has she done that's _subtle_?"

Uhura looked away. "Nothing of importance."

Kirk's patience snapped. "So you're telling me that Mallory is a competent officer who was done nothing to offend you or any other wrongdoing worth mentioning. Do I have that correct?"

Uhura dropped her gaze. "Yes, sir."

"Then, as she seems perfectly capable of performing her function, and as no other member of the bridge crew has any problem with her whatsoever, the next time I hear you addressing her in the manner you used not five minutes ago, I'm going to put you on report. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?"

Uhura continued to study the floor. "Yes, sir."

Her meekness was infuriating. Uhura was not meek.

Kirk sighed, then took her by the arm. He pushed her unresisting into a chair, and then pulled up his own chair close to hers.

He leaned forward, so that even though Uhura kept her eyes downcast, he was talking into her face. "All right, Nyota," he said quietly, deliberately using her first name. "Spill."

Uhura hesitated for several heartbeats. Then, her face crumpled and she slumped forward with a sob, bracing her head against her knees.

_Tears_. Kirk was stunned. He hadn't expected tears. Shouting, sure; maybe a few PADDs flying through the air. But never tears. He stared in amazement.

Propping her head against her hands, Uhura wailed, "_She loves Spock!_"

Kirk stared, utterly at a loss for a reply.

"Lo thinks I'm crazy," Uhura sniffled, blotting her eyes with the back of a wrist. "But she doesn't watch her the way I do." She leaned forward, her tear-beaded lashes inches from Kirk's face. "She plays his log entries all the time. With the video on. Just... stares at them. And... she strokes his panel. A lot! Like this." Uhura demonstrated against the edge of the briefing room table. Kirk had to admit it looked pretty suggestive.

"She talks about him constantly, with this thrill in her voice. And her eyes get all googly. Not always, but enough. And sometimes—sometimes, when she's watching the video?" Uhura's eyes got wide, even as her voice sank into a whisper. "She _wiggles_."

Kirk winced. That much, he did not need to know.

Uhura made an inarticulate sound of frustration, balling her fists against her forehead, then slumped over in an excess of emotion.

Kirk tried very hard to collect himself. This was definitely not a problem he would have suspected. It would almost be funny, if Uhura weren't so upset by it.

He cleared his throat and said carefully, "So, uh, that's it?"

"That's _it_?" Uhura stared at him like he was crazy. She wailed into his face, "She wiggles in Spock's chair! She wiggles where he _sits_!"

Kirk scrunched up his eyes, hoping to offset the too-personal image. On the other hand, he really had to hand it to Spock. Not just anybody would be able to cause this much trouble when he wasn't even aboard the ship. Trust that crazy Vulcan to cause wailing and tears on the home-front while he was probably out sniffing the flowers in between taking geological survey readings. Clearly Spock simply had an excess of personality.

But the main thing was to get Uhura sorted out. Kirk was more than half convinced that this was just her personal method of missing her lover. Still, he felt obligated to point out the obvious. He didn't put an arm around her—he suspected how well that would fly—but he remained close to her, hoping to give some comfort by his proximity.

"Lieutenant, I can understand how your patience must have been tried. But, seriously, you can't for a moment believe that Mallory is a threat to you. I mean," he smiled weakly, "you got the gig. It's not like Spock is going to come back and decide to take up with whatever young woman has been playing the most log reports featuring his voice in his absence."

"But that's the point!" Uhura gushed with energy. Kirk found himself oddly distracted by the remnants of tears clinging to her lashes. She really was very beautiful. "She plays these tapes _constantly_—"

"Personal tapes?"

Uhura looked offended. "Of course not! No one has access to personal logs, Captain. You know that."

"Officials ship's entries then," Kirk persisted.

"Yes."

"Related to our mission."

"Well..." Uhura grew thoughtful. "Some of them are pretty old but... I guess you could say they are related. If she's trying to figure out the equipment, then she might have to go back a bit."

Kirk nodded, waiting for her to think it through. Which she did, even though her expression showed that she didn't much like the conclusion. Uhura said flatly, "You're going to let her keep doing this."

Kirk shrugged, trying to look sympathetic yet firm at the same time. "Mallory is playing official ships logs in support of an official mission. Lieutenant, I can't tell her _not_ to view them. That would pose a ridiculous constraint."

"She doesn't need the video on," Uhura rebutted.

"The content often conveys more meaning when people can see the speaker. That's why official ship's records include the video option. Lieutenant, you _know_ this."

Uhura shuddered and looked away. "I just don't like her staring at him all the time."

Kirk sighed. "Look, Mallory can't help the fact that Spock was her predecessor as Science Officer. If she's going to access the vaults, she's going to see Spock's recordings. Made by Spock, for official purposes, which is exactly what Mallory is using them for." He shook his head. "Lieutenant, you're just going to have to get comfortable with this. It's not Mallory's fault that your boyfriend liked to sit up half the night dictating detailed observations about star clusters. He put them in the official ship's log, and Mallory has every right to view them."

"But she's viewing them... salaciously."

"Can you prove that?"

Uhura hesitated, then looked unhappy. "No."

Kirk lifted his hands helplessly. "Well..?"

Uhura sighed heavily. "It's just so unfair that she gets to ogle him all the time."

Kurt grinned. "Fight back. Play a few old recordings of your own."

Uhura was not in a playful mood. "That's not the point. She's ogling him, and there's nothing he can do about it."

Kirk shrugged. "It's better than having her ogle him in person."

"No, it isn't."

Kirk blinked. "It's not?"

"No!" Uhura sounded convinced. "If he were here in person, he could defend himself."

"_How?_"

Uhura took on a remote expression that was doubtless intended to resemble Spock. And it did, sort of... if he was younger and way prettier. "Ensign Mallory," she said in a comically gruff voice, "you have been staring at me for approximately 14.75 seconds. This is roughly 11.38 seconds longer than is customary among humans engaged in routine conversation. Is there a problem with your eyesight? Perhaps you should report to Dr. McCoy."

Kirk burst into a laugh. "You're absolutely right. Spock in person would be able to pour cold water over any crush headed his way. I know hearing Spock say that line would certainly knock any affection out of _me_."

Uhura glowered at him, which at least was an improvement. He'd rather have Uhura angry and sarcastic then Uhura helpless and weeping. Funny how he'd just realized that.

He took a breath. "Okay, I think we've gone over this enough. As long as Mallory is playing official tapes in the line of duty, you have to let her proceed. I'm certain you'll let me know if you spot any infractions."

Uhura shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, sir."

"And... I might be able to find her something to do in the astrophysics section. Something that will get her out of your hair for a few hours out of every shift. Will that help... ease the strain, Lieutenant?"

Uhura's look of gratitude would be enough to sustain him through many an unpleasant task. "Yes, Captain," she breathed. "That would help _immensely_."

"Well, then!" Kirk slapped his thighs and stood. "Consider it done." He gave her a warm smile. "I'm always happy to help out my officers when they're troubled."

Uhura smiled as she rose. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it. Just keep your temper in check and try to find some other outlet for your energy."

Uhura gave him a wry look.

Kirk held up his hands. "Hey! That was not a salacious remark!"

She narrowed her eyes. "Wanna bet?"

"No way. I don't even want to _think_ of what you'd make me do if I lost." Companionably, he guided her toward the door. "So, have you heard anything from the man himself yet?"

Uhura's face looked sorrowful, making him sorry he'd raised the subject. "No. But there's a three-day delay to Emagious III by subspace pulse—almost four days now. I'm not expecting him to report in until he reaches the system."

"Hmm. Three more days." He gave her a sympathetic smile. "You know, you'll just have to hang in there. Some distractions would be good about now. What did you do with yourself _before_ you met Spock?"

Uhura gave him a sharp look. "Thank you for your help with Mallory, Captain." Hugging her PADD, she stepped out the door.

Kirk chuckled softly, and followed her.


	12. Chapel is interrupted

_Who would have guessed?_ Nyota thought with some amusement, as she prepared her station for transfer to second shift. _James Kirk does have his uses after all._

True to his word, Kirk had hooked up Mallory with the astrophysics team. They were all working on what Mallory called "the resolution problem"— trying to get Spock's station to produce the same results that Spock got even though Spock wasn't here to operate it. As a result, the last two shifts had gone amazingly smoothly, with Mallory's enthusiasm safely diverted to a team below-decks, and a lot fewer agonizing replays of Spock's soft, compelling voice stating fact after fact with measured precision.

Kirk had also— and this was beyond the call, Nyota thought— taken to spending more time personally with Mallory, talking over her challenges and progress. This meant that Mallory spent more time engaged in conversation with him and less time distracting Nyota and Lo. Nyota was unashamedly grateful for both developments.

In fact, even though second shift had officially begun, Kirk was still here, listening to Mallory's latest update. He gave the appearance of being genuinely interested, but the wink he'd given Nyota when he'd sauntered over from the captain's chair betrayed his true motivation.

"So, thanks to Kwak's help," Mallory was saying, "we've got the signal cleaned up to _almost_ Commander Spock's baseline. We're now within 0.03% of his most recent readings."

The twinkle in Kirk's eye was clearly directed at Nyota. "Well, that seems close enough for our survey purposes."

"Possibly, but we've got to eliminate every bit of distortion we can. Just _think_ of the discoveries we're making today because of our improved signal resolution. I mean, compare what we have now to just a few years ago. When Admiral Pike's first command went out, do you know how much cruder their spectronomic readings were?"

Nyota knew that Kirk was perfectly aware of the signal resolution during that time period, but he kept an admirably straight face as he answered, "How much?"

"_600%!_" Mallory answered with energy. "600% in only 20 years— can you believe that?"

"It's hard to imagine," Kirk answered, shaking his head. He gave Nyota a bob of his eyebrows over Mallory's head, but the science officer was too obsessed with her dissertation to notice.

"We've found literally _hundreds_ of new systems with the increased resolution. So we can't afford to neglect any improvement, no matter how small. Ten years from now, they're going to be wondering how we ever got by with systems as crude as _this_."

"I have no doubt that you're right."

Nyota had finished her lockdown and handed her PADD to her relief, Ensign Flynn. _Her relief_. That word was taking on ever-more appropriate connotations, the longer Nyota worked beside Mallory.

"Now, Commander Spock—" Mallory went on, and Nyota couldn't help rolling her eyes. She shouldn't have been surprised; it was almost a minute since Mallory had mentioned him.

"—somehow got rid of that extra bit of noise, but we still can't quite figure out how he did it. I've put a tweak on all these manual controls, so we can find out by sheer trial and error exactly what settings he was using in what combination to get his unprecedented results. Personally, I think he must have extraordinary hearing—"

"I'll see you later," Nyota murmured to Flynn.

"Have fun," Flynn murmured back, trying to hide his amusement as he shot a glance at Mallory.

Nyota laughed, and made her escape.

It was Friday. Normally, Friday's didn't have much significance aboard a starship. Unless shore leave was involved, one day pretty much ran into another. But some members of the ship still upheld the fine Friday tradition of... what might euphemistically be called "winding down." And if ever there was a week where Nyota needed to wind down, it was this one.

Fortunately, considering the reputation of her host, she suspected the winding-down process had already begun. She had a standing invitation to attend this informal weekly gathering of the ship's senior officers, but considering that Spock didn't care for social functions involving alcohol, and she and Spock often preferred their own activities anyway (Nyota felt her cheeks warm), well, she'd let this routine fall by the wayside. And Jim Kirk _had_ told her to resume her former, pre-Spock activities. _Damn!_ Two useful suggestions from that man in one week. He was breaking new records here. But tonight Nyota found herself eager to comply.

She turned the corner leading to Sickbay, walked in, and stopped short.

Christine Chapel was in the outer office accessing a medical record. What arrested Nyota was the image, small though it was, in one corner of the nurse's screen—a very familiar, dark-haired image... with pointed ears.

Christine looked up quickly, hearing someone come in. She spotted Nyota, and promptly blushed.

Nyota's surprise turned instantly to anger. What _was_ it with these people? Irately, she marched up to Christine and demanded, "What are you doing?"

Christine attempted to pull herself together—but she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and looked it. "Ensign Mallory asked me to review Mr. Spock's file."

Nyota was going to crack a tooth over all the jaw-clenching she'd been doing lately. "What possible reason could Ensign Mallory have for prying into Mr. Spock's _private_ medical records? And why would you agree to help her?"

The _why_ was pretty obvious; Nyota had long suspected that Christine harbored tender feelings towards Spock. But she'd managed to keep them under control—at least until Mallory came aboard.

Christine looked flustered, but plunged ahead. "It's part of this signal resolution problem they're working on. Mallory wanted to compare Mr. Spock's hearing range with that of a normal human's." Christine hesitated. "The captain authorized it."

Nyota was not mollified. "Did he also authorize you to display pictures of your patients?"

Now Christine looked offended. "The pictures are part of every medical profile. Unlike some people, I don't have the name and face of every crew member memorized."

Nyota looked at the picture. It was actually a fairly gorgeous portrait of Spock, his head tilted slightly and his eyes looking upward. She had always liked that pose. Apparently, Christine did, too—enough to attach a generously sized image of one to the corner of his medical file.

This was torture. Nyota looked away. "So, have you finished looking up his hearing range yet?"

"I was just getting to it. Really, I had only just opened the file when you walked in."

Which meant that Jim Kirk had given the order after Nyota had left her station. It might simply have been a response to Mallory nattering on about Spock's amazingly sensitive hearing—but Nyota couldn't help wondering if he'd deliberately waited until she was out of the room, possibly to avoid her protest against this very thing. Well, she'd found something to protest, all right. Plenty, in fact.

Icily, she said to Christine, "Well, you'd better get those statistics back to Mallory right away. She's probably chewing off her left hand waiting for them to come in."

Christine frowned. "Nyota?"

Nyota backed away, heading for the inner office. "Oh, don't mind me. I honestly don't care about people looking at pictures of Spock all day long and listening to his taped reports over and over again. It's fine. I enjoy it. Please carry on, Nurse."

She walked away without waiting for Christine's reaction, and strode briskly into Dr. McCoy's office.


	13. Scotty defends his point

As suspected, Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott were already hard at work, slaving away over an exotically shaped bottle of some amber liquid. McCoy's eyes lit up when he saw Nyota walk in.

"Well, look who decided to join the party! Pull up a chair, angel."

Nyota waited for the door to close behind her, then fell back against it. She put her hands over her face and _screamed_—a gargled shriek of frustration—counting on the soundproofing to keep the cry from carrying to Christine in the next room.

The two men stared at her with wide eyes. After a moment, Scotty said, "Er, drink, Lieutenant?"

"They're _everywhere!_" Nyota cried. "I'm _surrounded!_ On the bridge, in the mess, in Sic—" Her gaze fell across Dr. McCoy. Annoyed as she was with Christine at the moment, she didn't intend to be the one to let the doctor know about his assistant's unrequited love. He'd have to figure that one out for himself. "In other people's offices," she finished, as Scotty hastened to fetch her a glass. "I can't escape."

"_Who's_ everywhere, darlin'?" McCoy asked in his folksiest, down-home manner.

Agitated as she was, Nyota felt his power to soothe. "Them. The..." _The Spock stalkers_. "The admiration squad," she finished.

"Ah!" Scotty eyed her sympathetically. "I ken the problem now. Ye poor lassie."

He poured a generous dollop into a glass and held it out to her, even as McCoy dragged over a chair for her. Nyota sank into it gratefully, then tossed back the contents of her glass with a gulp. Wow, that was strong. She held out her hand for a refill.

"That bad, huh?" McCoy chuckled as Scotty, with raised brows, filled her up again.

The Scot gave McCoy a hard look. "It's nae laughing matter, Doctor. Improprieties aboard a starship should always be taken seriously."

"Damn straight," said Nyota, and tossed back her second shot. It burned, oh so good, all the way down, melting her tension away.

Scotty filled her up again, then resumed his seat and leaned forward intently across the small table. "All right, Lieutenant. Suppose ye tell me who it is that's put you into such a state."

Nyota was flattered by his concern. She thought about poor Christine in the other room, doomed to look at Spock's picture in his medical record because she had no other outlet for her affection. Warmed by the liquor and the gentlemans' attentions, she began feeling rather more generous. "I'd rather not say. I mean, it doesn't really matter _who's_ doing it. The problem is that they're everywhere—everywhere I turn."

Scotty shook his head. "Now, ye didn't come in here and scream yer head off because of some vague and general _somebody_. It's someone specific who's hounding you, isn't it?"

Nyota paused. She was really starting to feel rather relaxed. "I wouldn't say 'hounding'..."

"Ach, there's more to this than you're letting on." He tightened his jaw, while McCoy just smiled and shook his head, sipping his drink. Scotty leaned closer. "You tell me, lassie. Ye just tell me who it is who's been botherin' ye, and so help me, I'll thrash him from here to the engineering decks!"

Nyota was brought up short—but not short enough not to kill her third drink. She winced and set the glass solidly on the table. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"The person who's bothering you!" Scotty frowned at her lack of comprehension. "I'll tell ye, if he's made so much as one inappropriate gesture— What _is_ it with you, Doctor? You find this humorous, do ye?"

Doctor McCoy laughed long and heartily, equally ignoring Scotty's indignant expression and Nyota's sour one. "I'm sorry," he said, getting the better of his mirth. "I just can't listen to you two talking at cross purposes for another minute."

"It's not funny, Doctor!" Scotty cried with energy. "If Nyota's being harassed—"

"She's being harassed, all right." His eyes twinkled as he finished his drink. "But not by any imaginary crewman."

Scotty's eyes were wide. "Who, then?"

McCoy glanced her way, but Nyota was feeling the full force of her alcoholic buzz and was disinclined to answer. McCoy topped up his own drink, and then freshened both of theirs. In light of her continued silence, he volunteered, "I believe we can trace the source of our fair Lieutenant's problems to Mallory."

"Mallory." Scotty chewed over the name, doubtless running over the roster for the male crew before stumbling upon the truth. He looked startled when he finally hit it. "Ye mean... the new science officer?"

"The very one," McCoy said lightly, sipping his drink.

"_That_ sweet, young thing?" Scotty cried, then looked at Nyota with amazement. "What in the world did she do to _you_?"

Nyota glowered, resenting her sudden change of role from innocent victim to heavyweight hitter. Still, it wasn't worth talking about. Nothing was worth talking about. She downed her fourth shot.

McCoy hesitated, until it was obvious that Nyota wasn't going to say anything. He then said to Scotty, "Nyota suspects that Mallory has a crush on Mr. Spock."

"She does?" Scotty blinked, then settled back comfortably in his chair. "Ach, well." He raised his drink in a toast. "Join the club, ye poor lass." He tossed it back.

Nyota eyed him through her alcoholic haze. "Join the club?" She actually sat up with her indignation; when had she slouched over? "Join the _club_? _What_ club?"

Scotty shrugged. "The Spock Appreciation Society, of course." He gave her a narrow look. "D'ye mean to tell me you've never noticed any... interest in your boyfriend on the part of various crewmembers before?"

Nyota wouldn't meet his eyes. "Well..."

"Lieutenant!" Scotty gently chided. "Ye _had_ to have noticed."

Feeling put upon, Nyota shifted in her chair. "Maybe a little."

"A _little_," McCoy snorted, and sipped his drink. He was enjoying this conversation way too much. Damn Jim Kirk for filling him in any way. Did he have to go blabbing Nyota's secrets to everyone on the ship? Sure, Dr. McCoy was discreet, but still...

"I'll give ye this, though," Scotty chatted on, while Nyota went back to slumping over the table. "They do seem to be everywhere. Why, just the other day, in Engineering, one of my technicians—"

"Nelson," Nyota mumbled, recalling the scene in the mess.

Scotty raised his brows. "Nelson, too?" He gave Dr. McCoy a look. "That's a new one."

McCoy waved him away, as if this discussion were beneath his notice.

"Er, no," Scotty resumed. "It wasn't Nelson."

"Great," Nyota mumbled to the table. "There's two of them." She downed her drink.

"No," Scotty nattered on. "This was Lu—er, a different one."

McCoy sat up, looking delighted and shocked at the same time. "Lumley, too?"

Scotty held out a finger. "Now, I never said it was Lumley."

McCoy sat back, smiling. "And here I always thought she had so much sense."

"She does! That is, we aren't discussing Lumley."

"Right," said McCoy. "Just this hypothetical technician."

"Right." Scotty nodded, pleased that the conversation was back on track. "This hypothetical technician. So anyway, it was a week or two ago, and Mr. Spock came down to Engineering for some reason. And Lum—er, this technician, was working with another one off to the side and she leaned over and said to her, 'I'd hit that.'"

Nyota's eyes got big. "She _said_ that? Right in front of you?"

"Well, I don't think she meant to be overheard." Scotty mulled the situation, as if trying to recall the exact details. "I'm pretty sure it was meant to be a private observation."

Nyota stared at him, aghast. "That means _Spock_ overheard her."

"Well, now, he might _not_ have."

"Yes, he did. If he was walking by, and _you_ heard her, then certainly _he_ heard her." Thoughts of Spock's extraordinary hearing powers, clearly documented in the next room, danced through her head.

Scotty shook his head. "Now, we cannae be sure of that, Lieutenant. In fact, now that I think about it, she might not ha' talking about Mr. Spock at all."

"_What?_"

"Honestly. She could have been referring to anyone. It's just that Mr. Spock happened to walk by at that precise moment, and this technician said to Arn—er, said to her companion... ye know, what she said... and they both giggled—_that's_ what led me to believe they were talking about Spock. But, ye know, I don't have any _proof_."

Nyota held her head in her hands. _This was a nightmare!_

"What I don't get," McCoy interrupted, "is why so many people around here are crazy about Mr. Spock. I mean, _Spock_!" He waved his hands, as if faced with an insoluble puzzle. "What's that guy got anyway, besides a sneer that can take the temperature in a room down to absolute zero?"

Nyota frowned, but Scotty stared at him. "Ye aren't serious, Doctor?"

"Yes, I am." McCoy set his glass on the table with a flourish. "I'll grant you the ears. That's got to have an exotic pull for some people. But, apart from that? You've got _me_ stumped."

Nyota wanted to debate this—she really did. Instead, she fumbled with her empty glass—which McCoy obligingly filled for her.

Scotty was rubbing his jaw, pondering the original question. "Well, _I_ can see Mr. Spock's appeal." He gave Nyota a warm smile. "Apart from being a bonny good friend."

Nyota smiled back. The room was starting to spin, but not enough to keep her from sipping her drink.

"Ye have to admit," Scotty went on, "objectively speaking, he's a fine-looking man— if you like 'em long and lean that way, which many of 'em do."

"So he's reasonably good-looking," McCoy grumbled. "So are a lot of people. What else?"

"He's a cool head in a crisis," Scotty said thoughtfully. "Lots o' women go for that."

"_I'm_ a cool head in a crisis," McCoy argued. "I don't see them lined up for _me_."

"It's the _combination_, Doctor."

"So what you're saying is that I have to have looks plus composure _plus_ ears to be attractive?" He tossed back his shot and pouted. "I might as well blow myself out the airlock right now."

"We're talking about Spock," Scotty corrected. "Ye have your own appeal."

McCoy glared at him. "Yeah? What is it?"

Scotty stared. "Give me a minute. I was thinking about Spock."

McCoy glowered. "You and the whole ship." He nudged Nyota's elbow. "You awake?"

She groaned.

"He's tall," Scotty mused. "That's attractive."

"Can we just forget about this conversation?" McCoy snapped.

"But personality means more than looks," Scotty continued.

"You mean, the personality of a computer printout? _That_ personality?"

"Ach, Doctor! Mr. Spock has _loads_ of personality."

"Loads of _something_," McCoy grumbled.

"He's brave, well-meaning—"

"Always ready to hear himself talk—"

"Loyal."

"Inhibited."

"Now, Doctor," Scotty chided. "You're nae even _trying_ to think this through. Mr. Spock is an intelligent, steady, honest—"

"Arrogant, self-centered, pri—" Noticing Nyota, he finished with, "prima donna."

"Oh, not self-centered," Scotty countered amiably. "Surely not self-centered, Doctor."

Nyota was only too happy to let Scotty carry the battle; she was too far gone to rise up in righteous wrath as she otherwise would have. Besides, she knew that Dr. McCoy was the one who loved to hear himself talk, at least when he was grousing about Spock. But she knew the doctor really respected Spock underneath his prickly exterior—and was equally determined to never let that respect show. Talk about having a personality. She tipped up her glass, and frowned to see that it was empty.

The door swished open, and Kirk bounded into the room. "Wow, was that _brutal!_ I've got to thank Sulu and Chekov later for bailing me out. After 20 minutes of listening to statistics, they finally took Mallory to the rec room for— What the hell happened to _you_?"

Nyota looked up blearily to find Kirk staring at her.

"Five shots," Scotty answered.

"Six," corrected McCoy.

"Wow." Kirk pulled up a chair wonderingly. "I don't think I've ever seen you shit-faced before." He held up a hand. "How many fingers?"

Nyota swatted it away.

"Whew!" Kirk grinned. "And I thought _I_ was ready for a drink." He picked up the curiously shaped bottle— now almost empty— and eyed it. "What is this stuff?"

Scotty lifted a shoulder. "It's brown."

"So I see." Bemused, he looked around the table. "It looks like I'm a little late to the party, eh?"

"Always room for one more," McCoy said genially, reaching Kirk a fresh glass from the shelf.

Kirk took it absently, still gazing at his companions. "So, why is everyone so sober? I mean, serious?"

"We were talking about Vulcans, Jim." McCoy emptied the bottle into Kirk's glass. "They suck the fun out of everything."

"Gonna murder that Mallory," Nyota mumbled.

"Eh? What's that, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked impishly, leaning close and putting a hand to his ear as if he couldn't quite hear her.

Scotty answered, "I thought we'd established the problem was a little more widespread than that, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, apparently it's a creeping infection throughout Engineering." McCoy rummaged for a new bottle. "I think I'm going to have to inoculate everyone below deck 6."

"_Above_ deck shix," said Nyota.

"And above deck six, too," McCoy amended.

"_What_ creeping infection?" Kirk asked.

"Spock-itis," McCoy snapped. "It's more widespread than you might think."

"What, we have _other_ people viewing Spock tapes?"

"Well, viewing _him_, anyway." Scotty glanced at Nyota. "In a purely friendly manner."

McCoy snorted.

Kirk leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, holding his drink aloft. "You know, Uhura, I'm not so sure you've got it right about Mallory."

"She schtinks," said Nyota.

"I mean, about her being in love with Spock. I know—" He held up his hands to forestall any objection. "You've worked with her more closely than I have."

"Schtalks about 'im alla time," Nyota said.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."

"But I've spent quite a bit of time with her over the last couple of days," Kirk persisted, "and I can't say I really see anything there. Nothing more than a pretty obvious case of hero worship, that is."

Scotty cocked his head. "Ye honestly think it's just hero worship, Captain?"

"Well, I haven't seen any rubbing or wiggling, and I think I would have noticed _that_."

"Oh, is that the way of it?" Scotty grinned. "I confess, I wouldnae mind seein' a bit o' that myself."

"She wantsa jumpiz bones," Nyota slurred.

McCoy perked up. "What's this? Mallory wants to jump me?"

Kirk looked rueful. "Not you, Bones. _His_ bones. _Spock's_ bones."

"Oh." McCoy looked crestfallen. "Figures."

* * *

Much later, Nyota let Kirk help her back to her quarters. He wasn't so bad. No, really. He could be nice sometimes. When he felt like it. He'd had McCoy give her a pill a while ago so she could walk— that was nice, wasn't it? Although she'd have been perfectly happy to sleep in McCoy's office.

"Lotta be said for a table," Nyota told him, leaning against him as she wobbled down the hall. There weren't too many people around to see her stagger; it was late.

"Absolutely," Kirk agreed, as if he had any idea what she was talking about.

"Anna floor," Nyota added. "Floor's just fine."

"Floors are great. Here we are."

Her door slid open. When had they gotten _here_? Nyota didn't even remember being in the turbolift. Not with Jim. She remembered being in the turbolift with _Spock_. The memory made her sad.

"On the bed," Jim told her.

Nyota tried to smile. "Izzat Captain's orders?" Then she forgot about smiling and just concentrated on holding herself upright.

"You might say so. Now, sit down before you fall down."

Nyota actually did both, falling into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Kirk knelt and began removing her boots. That was nice, too. She felt a sudden rush of affection for him. It wasn't every ship's captain who would take your boots off when you were having trouble with your balance. She brushed his golden hair back around his ear.

"You're not Spock," she said, when he looked up, startled.

He gave her a twisted smile. "No. I'm not."

"S'too bad." She brushed back his hair some more. "You can be nice sometimes."

"That's what my press agent tells me." He rose and studied her. "Are you going to be all right?"

She waved a hand. "I'm fine." She looked blearily around her room. "I'm always fine."

"Okay. You sleep it off, and we can talk more tomorrow if you want to."

"I miss him." The tears sprang suddenly to her eyes. She put up a hand to cover them. The room seemed very still, especially with Jim standing there motionless, watching her. "I'm pathetic," she sniffled.

"Yeah, you're a sloppy drunk. I wouldn't have expected that of you."

Nyota tried to laugh, but her emotions were all mixed up. She looked around her room, all the familiar objects that seemed so barren now. "You know the last time Schpock was here? Y'know what he did?"

"Lieutenant—"

"He kished me." She pointed to her pillow. "Right there."

Kirk took a step toward the door. "I don't think you should be telling me this. I'm not sure that I want to _hear_ this."

"Swaz really nice."

"I'll bet it was." Kirk hesitated. "Should you be alone? I mean, I could ask Lo or somebody to sit with you."

Nyota waved her hand again. "I'm fine."

"If you say so." He lingered just within the boundary that would trigger the door to open. "You've heard nothing yet from Spock?"

"Tomorrow." Nyota knew she sounded bitter, but she couldn't help it. "He shed he'd senna message when he reached the planet. That woulda been four daysh ago, an' it takes that long fer a message to get here, so..." She shrugged. "Tomorrow."

Kirk looked sympathetic. "I guess he's not in the habit of deviating from his scheduled plan, is he?"

"Nope!" Nyota took a breath. "S'not gonna communicate more'n he said. I know that. It's juss... sad." She pursed her lips, fighting tears. "Makes me sad."

"Well, next time spell it out for him. Have him send a message every day, whether he has anything important to say or not."

"I wasn't always thish bad." Nyota took a shaky breath. "Used ta do a lotta stuff on my own. I guess I forgot how."

"Well, being in a relationship changes things. It's no reflection on you."

"No reflession," Nyota murmured, wondering if that were true.

"I mean, you and Spock have probably been together for..."

He paused, but Nyota had no intention of filling in the timeframe for him. Let him find it out on his own.

"...for however long you've been together," Kirk continued, "and that's changed things. Your habits and so on. And it's probably been pretty intense when you _are_ together—you know, if he does any of that Vulcan mind stuff..."

Nyota bit her lip. She missed his Vulcan mind stuff. She missed all of it.

"And you've probably never been apart for so long before. So it's a rough period for you. But you _will_ get through it. Spock will be back, all well-adjusted and perky, and things will be better than ever... won't they?"

Nyota couldn't bring herself to answer. She hoped so. She hoped it would be better with all her heart.

Kirk sighed. "All right, get some sleep. Tomorrow we're going to take you to the rec room for some R&R whether you want to go or not."

Nyota managed a wobbly smile. "Threats?"

"Whatever works."

"Ri'. Whatever works."

He gave her a fond smile, and dimmed the lights. "Good night, Nyota."

"G'night... Jim."

She watched him step into the hall, and the door closed. Then she folded over herself, bending double to rest her head on her knees.

It hurt. Missing him actually hurt. When had she become so weak? It's not like she had to have him around to be functional... did she?

Dismally, Nyota looked at her computer. No message light. She didn't expect one, but still. It would have been nice to know that he was thinking about her.

"I miss you," she whispered toward the computer. Nothing answered her but the weak echo of her own words.

Nyota curled up on her side, hugging her pillow on her cold, empty bed.


	14. Spock gets it

Spock wound his way through the gnarled stalks of tree-sized fungi, their elongated brown caps like opaque umbrellas obscuring the weak light of dawn. The forest exuded a deep, musky scent; a faint drizzle pattered gently about him, clinging cooly to his shoulders and making the spongy terrain give even more beneath his feet. Softly he wound his way through the giant stems, his feet making barely as much noise as the ceaseless tapping of the tiny drops.

Spock broke into the clearing and found the shuttlecraft waiting where he had left it, maneuvered into an open pocket of this fascinating jungle. He trotted up to it unhurriedly, feeling deeply relaxed. His all-night run had been both invigorating and restorative. Only 6.2 kilometers beyond the peculiar mushroom forest, the terrain opened up into brackets and pads of fascinating shapes, challenging him to explore them. The last thirty-three hours had been given over purely to the pleasure of discovery and the comfort of movement. He had not slept often so far on his journey, but he felt tonight (today) he could manage it. Perhaps the dreams… well, he would not speculate. Yet he would welcome a sleep without dreams.

He detached the fastening of his small pack with one hand and caught it up. He rooted through it cautiously, careful not to spill the specimens he had collected that filled it to the bulging point. Locating his field tricorder, he pushed the button to supply the proper code. The shuttlecraft's hatch obediently opened.

He bounded up the short staircase and ducked inside, the interior lights flickering on as they sensed his presence. Depositing his pack in the copilot's chair, he crossed to the shuttle's main console and immediately tapped in his authorization code. The console sprang to life— and with it, the message-indicator light.

Spock suppressed a sigh. It was a goal of his to... not precisely deceive Nyota, but keep her unaware of the extent of his activities. He was certain she would worry if she knew how far he traveled, and with such rudimentary support. To that end, he tried to respond to her messages as quickly as possible— as if he had little to do but continuously return to the shuttlecraft and look for messages. On this latest excursion he had been away only one full day; at 33.2 hours, the Emegian day was longer than a standard Terran one.

Yet the console indicated that _two_ messages from the _Enterprise _had arrived during his absence. The first was timestamped a mere 1.2 hours after he had departed the shuttlecraft. Regrettable, as it meant the response interval had been unfortunately extended (in Nyota's timeframe) by a full day. Unusually, a second message had arrived some 12 hours after the first. Spock paused. Two messages sent in one day might perhaps portend an ominous situation. Obviously, someone aboard the _Enterprise _was keen to reach him. He prepared himself to receive bad news.

Spock sank into the pilot's chair. "Computer, play messages."

The first was dated 5.4 days earlier, having spent four standard days in transit and 1.4 more awaiting his arrival on the shuttlecraft. The message was from Nyota, of course. He listened carefully, but it contained nothing more than an accounting of her recent activities and such ship's information as one might expect on a routine mission. The second, sent 12.8 hours after the first, was more puzzling. It wasn't signed, and contained neither visual nor audio content. Beneath the computer-supplied header and date was simply the printed message, "I miss you." And that was all.

Spock looked at the terse missive. _I miss you_. Spock studied it for over a minute, and could not come up with any logical reason for sending such a note. It seemed at best an unnecessary communication. Did not Nyota clearly state as much in her previous message, sent earlier that same day? Mentally, Spock calculated the ship time of each composition. Nyota's first message had been sent during her lunch break; this was becoming a pattern with her. But the second would have been sent at approximately 0200 Saturday morning. Considering Nyota's habits, it was unlikely that she should have been up at that hour, and even more so for her to be active and sending illogical messages into the night. The image was vaguely disturbing.

Spock reviewed his facts. He was not being summoned back to duty. That had been his initial concern when he'd seen the two messages in close succession; an early recall remained the most likely reason for the _Enterprise_ to attempt to contact him prior to the expiration of his agreed-upon leave time. However (to his undisguised relief), this had proved to not be the case. Furthermore, nothing of an urgent nature had occurred onboard that required his attention; Nyota's previous message made that clear. Yet she had felt the need to send this extra communication to him.

_I miss you_.

The words stood stark upon his screen, demanding a response. Yet what would be the proper response to give? His regular messages must reassure her as to his safety, so she could have no cause to worry there. His very attentiveness to her communications must reassure her emotionally— should it not? While what he was doing was essential to his well-being, he did regret that he must be parted from her for the duration. Yet she understood this— clearly had understood it from the beginning, as she had staunchly supported him taking a leave that would help him, but could in no manner benefit her, save in the most tangential way through him returning in a more stabilized state.

Then, gradually, the truth clicked in Spock's brain. Slowly, he nodded.

Nyota did not need reassurance regarding his welfare; she knew or suspected that he would complete his stay without difficulties. Neither did she require emotional reassurance of his regard for her. That (thankfully) she took as a given. But she missed him— missed _Spock_. She missed their talks, their evenings together, the comfort of having him at hand. It was her vulnerable human nature, not her logical mind, that had cried out into the night.

Spock contemplated what might constitute an adequate response. Certainly, his presence would quiet her, but he was deeply reluctant to cut his leave short. He was only now beginning to feel the healing effects that his exertions had begun to work upon his mind. He still had far to go before he could hold with equanimity the events of the last few weeks. And Nyota had not asked him to return. She comprehended the necessity of his actions, at least well enough to support them. But she had her own needs, which too demanded acknowledgement. Regrettably, she appeared to be struggling in his absence.

Spock bowed his head, considering. Nyota needed more than reassurance; she needed _him_. With fully half his leave time still before him, Spock could not give her that. What he must do is give her as much of himself as he could, considering that they were lightyears apart.

He composed himself to record. As was his wont on this sabbatical, he left the video off. But this time, his decision did not spring from a rationalization to conserve power, nor from an attempt to hide his primitive appearance. He could easily have dressed in his uniform for the communication if he wished. But that would seem to him to be a fabrication, presenting a false image of his activities here. What Nyota needed at this time, more than anything else, was honesty.

Spock was uncomfortable with intimacy. He was not certain he did it well. Yet it occurred to him that his voice alone would be better able to convey the intensity of the thoughts he wished to relate. It was a risk for him; Spock did not like to commit feelings to record. The thought of recording such a personal communication, coupled with his facial expression, was too inhibiting. But he could do this much for her— give her a whisper from the dark, something to play to herself in the silence of her quarters when the nights stretched long.

He pushed the control.

_Galileo _to_ Enterprise_

Stardate 2258.144

My dearest Nyota,

I ran through the darkness tonight. For hour upon hour, I knew only the feel of the wind upon my skin, the pounding of my heart, the deep and measured rise and fall of my chest. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the beat of the ground beneath my feet, hear the hollow ringing of my footsteps, experience the peculiar give of the fungi that coats this part of the world in such abundance.

The air was warm. On Vulcan, the thin atmosphere often produced cold nights, even freezing temperatures in the desert. Here, the air enfolds one like a soft blanket, holding in the heat of day and releasing it gently, hour after hour, like a considerate friend as one flees along beneath the stars.

Emagious III has no moon. The omnipresent clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the jeweled face of the night with delicate, lacy fingers. Yet the stars shone through, sometimes in fleeting glimpses, sometimes strongly enough that I could see, clear as daylight, the sharp outline of my shadow repeatedly stretching out and bunching below my feet.

I set down yesterday in a forest such as I have never seen. The stalks of the fungi, which appears similar to Agaricomycotina, are as wide as the _Galileo_. The flattened tops, a couple of meters thick, towered twenty meters above my head. The stems are so tough they resisted my attempts to hack off a piece for analysis. I was reluctant to turn to my phaser, so I let them be.

The place in which I now find myself is, as a human might say, a wonderland. I find its alien composition deeply compelling. I wandered far, starting at daybreak yesterday, through the mycotic forest and onto the plains beyond, where the tree-shapes gave way to soaring brackets and arches of tough, fungal shoots. A quick-running stream gurgled in and around the fleshy stems. About midday I found a pool sufficiently deep to bathe in. Afterwards, I climbed upon a large, flattened pileus, in shape like a lily pad, but over 3 meters in diameter. As I sat there cross-legged, meditating while the sun dried my skin, I suddenly recalled some of the stories my mother had told me in my youth— about pointy-eared elfs who danced among the toadstools and spirited away human children. And here now I was in truth, an "elf" in every apparent manner save size, squatting upon an enormous mushroom cap. I wonder what my mother's reaction would have been, could she have seen the sight. It pleases me to think the situation would have amused her.

The thick pads proved to be tough and inedible, but among the stalks I found some pale shoots about the size of my finger. These provided basic nourishment, but they are bitter. I brought some back to the shuttlecraft with me, where I intend to analyze their chemistry more thoroughly. One curious property, which I only discovered hours later, is that they glow palely in the dark. Of more immediate importance to myself is my belief that they will greatly complement the taste of a black tuber I unearthed some days ago in a region several hundred kilometers to the east. I shall run my tricorder over them for a detailed analysis, and then chop my specimens into slices. Tossed with the black tuber, they should make a satisfactory salad.

My dear Nyota, I regret that you cannot be here with me. You know— you always did understand— that this is a journey I must undertake, and undertake alone. It is early to make predictions, and I have learned to be cautious, but I venture to say, I believe the experience is unfolding as intended. I still have far to go— perhaps farther even than you, my dearest Nyota, can appreciate. But I feel, despite the higher gravity, that a weight is lifting off my shoulders. I do not know whether the healing process will take weeks or years, but at least I have taken these first few steps. My only regret, _ashayam_, is that you must be on your own while I make this slow journey of recovering myself.

I trust that all is well aboard the _Enterprise_. I am gratified that my replacement shows such enthusiasm for spectral analysis. I will attach a detailed list of the settings that I used for the most recent analyses I performed for this sector. I hope Ms. Mallory finds them useful, although it sounds from your description as if she might have already solved the problem for herself by the time this message reaches you. Please inform the captain that much efficiency might have been gained had he permitted me to leave her detailed notes.

You are in my thoughts often, _ashayam_. Never doubt that, my dear one— not even for a moment.

Your own,

Spock


	15. Sulu shows promise

_Captain's log, Stardate 2258.159_. I really have to thank Starfleet Command for assigning me to the extremely boring—that is, the _essential_, but really _boring_—duty of mapping this quadrant. Thanks to them, I've put in the two most exciting weeks of my career. Considering the recent tragedy, I should have suspected there would be smugglers of Vulcan artifacts—but frankly, the thought hadn't crossed my mind until Sulu spotted that scout ship in a supposedly unoccupied sector. So I suppose I really ought to thank Starfleet for all the subsequent chases, tracking down, interrogations, and best of all, capture of this ring of shameless pirates attempting to profit from Vulcan's loss. Now, after two weeks of what I might consider really hard duty, we have our smugglers safely delivered to Starbase 4, and we're expecting to rendezvous with the _Lexington_ in three days to transfer our cargo of priceless Vulcan artifacts to them.

My only regret is that Spock isn't here to see the items for himself, but he isn't due back for another ten days, and I don't want to break into his solitude with a message that might only make him feel the pain of his loss all over again. Still, the _Lexington_ will deliver the items to the New Vulcan colony, so I imagine Spock will be able to see them there at some point in the future. Until then, we're resuming our original mission of mapping this quadrant. The crew is in excellent spirits, having felt that we've done something really positive in the wake of the Vulcan disaster. So we're once again looking at the stars—but keeping a sharp lookout for any other ships that might cross our path. It almost makes the mission fun. Sort of. Kirk out.

* * *

Jim sat in the command chair, reveling in the quiet hum of purposeful activity all around him. Their interlude with the space pirates had really perked everyone up. Even Mallory and Uhura were getting along. They weren't quite like sisters—Jim supposed that would be too much to ask—but they had certainly crossed that bumpy road into the territory of true colleagues. Their conversation was easy and uninhibited; it made for a welcome distraction, and was certainly a relief to the rest of them, considering that it had been all Jim could do to prevent the murder of their fresh-faced Science Officer only two weeks earlier.

And Uhura seemed genuinely happy now. Jim wasn't certain when the turning point had come, but about ten days after Uhura's drunken collapse, she had rallied with a strength that had surprised him. For days, she wore a secretive smile on her face. Off and on Jim suspected that she'd gotten a really good message from Spock—but he couldn't imagine a Vulcan phrasing anything in such a way that would put _that_ kind of smile on a woman's face. However, whatever had happened, the _Enterprise_ was once again a smoothly functioning machine. He felt his gratitude deep in his bones.

Uhura turned to him from her station. "Incoming message from Starfleet Command, sir." She had that lilt in her voice that made him wonder if she'd received a new Spock message. Maybe she was only happy that, in another nine-point-something days, her boyfriend's leave was scheduled to be over.

Jim rose from his chair. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll take the call in my quarters."

"I'll transfer it over, sir."

Yes, she was entirely too happy. He wondered if she had been playing the Spock tape again—some mystery message that she and Lo had been sighing and snickering over for days. Well, snickering was better than bickering, but he really was eager to get his First Officer back. He was ready to trade the feminine hilarity for a little cold superiority—just for a change of pace.

Jim arrived at his quarters in less than a minute and was in his chair behind the desk almost before the door closed. "Kirk here," he said, his voice activating the terminal.

"Jim." Admiral Pike's rugged visage beamed at him from the screen. "Are you all through shaking up the sector?"

"Admiral, I haven't even begun."

"That's a shame. I thought you might be ready for your first deep space assignment."

Energy galvanized Jim's body from toes to hair. "Really? You're sending us out?"

"I know you've been chomping at the bit, but we had to make sure there wouldn't be any incursions into Federation space in the aftermath of Nero's attack."

Jim was so excited he could hardly keep his seat. "I suppose a few measly pirates doesn't count as an incursion."

"No, it doesn't. But we've found we have to do some shuffling. I've got to send the _Lexington_ off to the Gamma quadrant immediately; the Tellarites insisted. That means you've got to deliver the stolen artifacts yourself to New Vulcan on your way out to Sector 294. I don't think it will delay you more than two or three days, once you're headed that direction."

"Two or _three_ days? Why the variation?"

"In case they want to thank you. You know, run through the old diplomatic drill: show you around, hold a dinner..."

"_Thank_ me." Jim stared at the screen. "Admiral, they're _Vulcans_."

"True." Pike held his gaze a minute, then they both cracked up. It felt good. Jim didn't know how the Vulcans managed. In his book, a good laugh was a _logical_ release of tension.

Pike recovered first. "I'm sorry, Jim. What was I thinking?"

"I seriously don't know." Jim sobered. The interval had given him time to think. With some trepidation, he asked, "So, uh, when does this assignment begin?"

"Now. Immediately."

The uneasy feeling in Jim's gut intensified. "I hate to break this to you, Admiral, but I'm one First Officer short."

"How's Sulu working out for you?"

"He's terrific—good with people, technically savvy, has all the right instincts. He'll make Captain one day."

Pike chuckled. "You have hardly three months of experience yourself—and you're already predicting who's going to make Captain?"

Jim felt annoyance creep in. Why was it no one ever took his suggestions seriously? Just because he was young didn't mean he was an idiot. "I'm serious, Admiral. He's got what it takes—but... later. Right now I think all he really wants to do is fly the ship."

"I'm serious, too. Jim, I know that you and Spock didn't always... see eye to eye. This is an opportunity for you to get someone a little more... compatible, in the position."

Jim did a slow burn. It haunted him enough what he'd had to do to Spock that first day—push him over the edge like that in a moment of crisis. The last thing he needed was for the Admiralty to think he couldn't handle his own crew. Stoutly, he said, "There's no one more compatible for me than Spock."

But Pike still didn't get it. "I know the pickings are slim at the moment, but we have a couple of officers who—"

"You can keep your damn officers. And don't bother to forward their files to me, because I won't even read them."

Pike cocked his head. "Jim, this isn't anything personal—"

"Like hell it isn't! We haven't even gotten underway on our true mission yet, and you already want to break up my bridge crew."

"Five years is a long time, Jim. If you're going to make changes, now is the time to do it."

"I said no, and I mean it." He paused, breathing hard, and try to think past his anger. He met Pike's eyes. "Who's after him?"

Pike's gaze flickered, just for instant. "What do you mean?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh, come off it, Admiral! Who's after Spock?"

Pike paused. "Commodore Mendez expressed an interest in attaching him to his staff."

"Commodore—" Jim took a deep breath. Mendez; that ass. Still, Jim supposed there would always be people trying to steal away his best officers. He'd better get used to it—as well as nip the precedent in the bud. He spoke coldly. "You can tell Mendez he can put that request where the sun don't shine."

Pike looked equal parts annoyed and amused. "For the sake of your career, I'll tell Mendez no such thing." He frowned. "Why are you so set on Spock, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something about having a supergenius with an eidetic memory and the strength of three men at my beck and call appeals to me."

"Except when he turns that strength against you."

If Jim could've punched a hole in the screen, he would have. "Admiral, that was a total fluke. Spock was under extreme emotional stress, and I goaded him on. I thought I made that perfectly clear in my report. He's a good officer—what am I saying? He's an _excellent_ officer, he wants to serve aboard the _Enterprise_, and I want to give him that opportunity. So can we end this conversation, and all future conversations on the same topic, right now?"

Pike subsided with a wry smile. "All right, Jim. You've carried the day."

Jim was still wound up. "Good," he snorted.

"But you've still got to figure out how to get your First Officer on board before you leave the sector."

Jim frowned. "What do you mean? We'll go over there and get him."

"You'll have to backtrack. I could have Carter pick him up with the _Excalibur_, and meet you at Outpost 8 in three weeks' time—"

"No way. Three weeks from now Mendez will have worked his sticky tentacles throughout Starfleet command, and Spock will be trapped in his insidious flypaper."

"You're mixing metaphors."

"The answer's 'No,' Admiral. But if it makes you happy, we'll map every star on the way over to Emagious III."

Pike shrugged. "It's your ship, Captain."

Pike's capitulation had a strange effect of calming Jim's temper and restoring his ego at the same time. He started to relax.

"How's Mallory working out?" Pike asked conversationally.

"She's fine—but she's no Spock."

"Few people are."

"Well, if you want to get technical about it,_ one_ person is, and in another few days, he'll be back aboard my ship."

Pike didn't even try to challenge him. All he said was, "You'll be cutting Spock's leave short."

"Only by four or five days. And believe me, Admiral, he'd rather be aboard the _Enterprise_ with me than sitting around running stupid science experiments for Mendez."

Pike held up his hands. "All right, Jim. I get it. Spock's your First Officer, and I'll set straight anyone who tries to suggest otherwise."

"Thank you, Admiral. I'd appreciate it."

* * *

Jim had a slight swagger in his step as he returned to the bridge.

"New orders," he announced the moment he stepped off the turbolift—enjoying the sensation of raising interest all around him. "The _Enterprise_ is scheduled to begin deep space exploration of Sector 294, after a brief stop at New Vulcan. But first, we have a passenger to pick up."

He put his back to Uhura, enjoying the idea of giving her a pleasant surprise. "Navigator, plot a course to Emagious III."

Sighs of satisfaction sounded all around the bridge. For all that Spock could be a handful, he really did have the confidence of the crew. That was a tremendous asset to Jim, and he intended to do everything he could to preserve and foster that trust.

"Course plotted," Chekov replied.

"How long will it take us to get there at warp factor four?"

"At warp four, estimating arrival in... 4.8 solar days."

"Lay in the course. Mr. Sulu, engage at warp four."

"Warp four, Captain."

Jim now permitted himself the luxury of turning around. He had to work hard not to laugh. Uhura was in a cloud of contentment, doing her best and failing to contain a self-satisfied grin. Beside her, Mallory was in a trance of excitement. Jim swore he could see her hyperventilating. He wondered if Uhura would take offense at Mallory's open admiration—and then dismissed the problem from his mind.

In five days, Spock would be back on board and they would be heading for unexplored regions. Surely nothing could go wrong before then.


	16. Uhura is proud of herself

For three days after Kirk's announcement, Nyota had been in a happy, excited glow; giddy and nervous at the same time. Within minutes of hearing their new orders, she had sent off two high-priority messages: one to Spock, warning him of the early rendezvous; and one to New Vulcan, stating their projected arrival date. She then spent many of her off hours preparing a delicious array of surprises to welcome her man back home—privately, in her quarters and his.

That was three days ago. Sent by subspace priority, both messages should have reached their intended targets by now. But, keen as she was to pick up every distant call, neither Spock nor the Vulcans had yet responded.

Kirk hung over her shoulder, frowning at her control panel as if he could make it pull the messages out of the ether by the power of his glare. "You're sure he's got it by now?" he asked for the sixth time.

Nyota was too agitated to take offense, although she did her best to hide it. "We're closing the distance to Emagious III steadily," she said, knowing that Kirk didn't give a flip about the Vulcans at the new colony. He would in due course; but for the moment, their thoughts were focused on one Vulcan in particular, who currently was located in the opposite direction.

"At high priority," Nyota continued, "Spock would have received the message at least 36 hours ago. At the rate we're traveling, we can expect any response he sent since then to reach us in a matter of hours."

"Except that it hasn't."

"No, sir." Nyota widened her search field, just in case.

"Which means he can't have sent a response yet," Kirk said grimly.

"Or that it's on its way," Nyota countered, feeling obligated to stay positive.

"Has he ever been this slow in responding before?"

Nyota was tempted to say that sometimes the slow response was best, but kept her randy thoughts to herself. _He was fine_, she told herself firmly. _Spock was fine_.

"He does occasionally spend the night away from the shuttlecraft," she said in a smoothly professional tone that she felt, quite honestly, did a lot of credit to her character. "And since Emagian days are longer than ours, his response is sometimes delayed by a couple of standard days."

"So, given that you sent the message two days ago, his response should have, at latest, reached us this morning."

Spock is _fine_, she repeated to herself. Aloud, she answered, "Yes, sir. That was my expectation."

Kirk tapped a forefinger against his lips. "Has he ever spent _more_ than a day away from the shuttlecraft?"

"Not that I'm aware of. But... our messages usually are spaced out by several days. It's possible that he could have done so without telling me."

Kirk gave her a wry smile. "Which would suit our inscrutable Vulcan down to the ground, don't you think?"

Nyota tried to smile back. She didn't like the idea of Spock deceiving her, but—as he knew her propensity to worry, it was entirely possible that he had chosen not to share the full extent of his planet-side activities with her. "It's... possible, sir."

"All right." Kirk straightened up, cares cast aside. Nyota wished she could banish her fears so easily. "We won't worry about it for another day or so."

"In another day and a half," Nyota reminded him, "we'll be there."

"Right. And if he still hasn't responded, we can give Spock holy hell over not answering our messages."

Nyota smiled. "Thank you, sir."

They both jumped as her console beeped. Nyota's hands leapt to the controls as if they were rocket powered. She jammed the signal amplifier into her ear, listening intently to catch the first thread of the transmission.

She relaxed slightly with her disappointment, and then looked up at Kirk. "It's a subspace transmission from New Vulcan."

Kirk raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's one out of two. Let's hear it, Lieutenant."

She pressed the appropriate button. A mechanical-sounding voice—far more cold-blooded than Spock could sound on his worst day—played from the speaker.

"_Enterprise_, greetings from New Vulcan. We await your arrival at the scheduled time. Due to the _kashek-shoret wak_, all transactions will be handled remotely in order to minimize disturbing influences. Your cooperation is appreciated. New Vulcan, out."

Kirk blinked. "That's it?"

"Very welcoming," Sulu muttered from his station.

Nyota checked her readings. "That's all, Captain. End of message."

"Huh." He straightened. "I _told_ Pike they wouldn't say 'Thank you.'"

"Excuse me," Chekov called from his station. "Vhat is this? _Kashek_... _kashek-_something _vak_?"

"_Kashek-shoret wak_," Nyota answered. "It's... well, I don't really know what it is."

Kirk looked surprised. "You can't translate it?"

"Well, of course I can _translate_ it. It means, literally, 'Time of the mind call'—something like that."

"So you know what they're saying, but you don't know what it _means_," Kirk clarified.

"That's right. It's an unusual term. 'Minds calling,' 'Time of calling minds...'" Nyota shook her head. "I think I would have remembered the phrase if I'd run across it before."

"Hmm. More mystery from our enigmatic Vulcan friends." Kirk caught her eye. "Could Spock tell you what it means?"

"Probably."

"All right. Once we get him on board, we'll ask him." Kirk gave her a sour face. "Unless you think it's worth our while to call New Vulcan back for an illumination."

Nyota laughed. "I don't think so, sir."

Kirk let out a weary sigh. "Okay. Send a standard acknowledgment of the message, Lieutenant. We'll figure out what they're talking about in, you know, 1.735 days or whatever."

"Actually, Keptain," Chekov said hesitantly, "it is 1.62 days until our expected arrival."

Kirk waved a hand. "Well, that's just another reason for us to get Spock back here! With him around, we'll always have the correct numbers after our decimal points."

Chekov looked troubled, no doubt uncertain as to whether or not he should take his captain seriously. "Yes, sir."

Nyota slanted Kirk a look. "You're wicked," she murmured.

"I do my best."

"Don't you mean you do your _worst_?"

He gave her an encouraging smile. "Whatever works, Lieutenant." He patted the back of her chair, and moved away. "Hang in there."

Nyota set about acknowledging the signal. It was hardly the work of a moment. Then she sat quietly, intently, waiting for word from Spock.

She was listening still hours after her shift had ended, even Mallory had turned in. But Spock never sent word.


	17. McCoy frets

_Captain's log, Stardate 2258.164_. The_ Enterprise_ is due to enter orbit around Emagious III within the hour. Despite repeated attempts to contact the shuttlecraft, Commander Spock has not responded. I hope that he is simply away from the shuttlecraft and therefore unaware of our messages, but his five-day period of silence is unusual, and I am concerned.

* * *

Jim spun around in the command chair toward the communications station. "Lieutenant, are you still tracking the homing beacon for the _Galileo_?"

"Yes, Captain," Uhura replied. "Signal is strong."

At Jim's elbow, Bones muttered, "He should have taken along that medical kit."

Kirk said to Uhura, "Transfer signal to navigation."

"Aye, sir."

"I _knew_ he'd need it," said McCoy.

Chekov reported, "Coordinates received. Plotting synchronous course."

"You know what we'll find has happened to him, don't you?" Bones said fiercely. "He'll have succumbed to something innocuous like an insect bite—something that could easily have been warded off by plain antibiotics. You mark my words."

Jim resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. He knew that Bones was worried; he'd been getting more wound up than Uhura over the continued silence. Unfortunately, when Bones got nervous, his inevitable course of action was to show up on the bridge and start complaining to Jim. Jim was not entirely reconciled to this chain of events. Further, he had a strong aversion toward speculating about his First Officer's untimely death. It was too soon to begin writing epitaphs.

"Course plotted," Chekov announced.

Jim rose from his chair to approach the helm. "Standard orbit, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, Captain."

Unfortunately, Bones trailed along with him. "You never should have agreed to let him go off by himself."

"Standard orbit achieved," Sulu reported.

"Why couldn't he take a vacation on a civilized planet, like a normal person?"

Ever since they had begun closing on Emagious III, Bones had followed Jim from station to station, voicing his opinions on the situation at hand, Vulcans in general, and Spock in particular. Jim did his best to ignore him, but it was like trying to ignore a giant Labrador retriever that was breathing in your face and drooling all over your margarita. The effort was doomed from the start.

Jim completed his circuit of the bridge and stopped at Uhura's station. She had her signal amplifier to her ear, listening intently. "Anything?"

"No, sir. No acknowledgement." She looked concerned but contained. Good. Jim wanted officers who could keep their heads in a crisis.

"Is he reading us?"

"He should have brought Scotty's laser beacon," Bones interrupted. "We'd be able to get through to him if he'd brought that laser beacon."

Uhura tactfully did not comment on this suggestion. "Message is getting through to the shuttlecraft. Diagnostic loops indicate a fully functional connection." She met Jim's eyes. "If he's there, he's reading us."

Jim turned toward Mallory. "Ensign, get a scan going. Optimize the settings for Mr. Spock—you know, whatever human/Vulcan thing he reads out as."

"Actually, Captain, Mr. Spock reads almost entirely as Vulcan."

"How do you know that?" Mallory opened her mouth to explain. "Never mind," said Jim quickly. "It doesn't matter. Just optimize the settings for Mr. Spock. Mr. Chekov..." He turned toward the front of the bridge. "Coordinate your search pattern with the science station. Start at the shuttlecraft, and widen your scan in concentric circles from there."

"Aye, Keptain."

Jim turned to face Bones. "I'm going down there."

Bones looked resolved. "I'm going with you."

"_You_ are waiting up here."

"That's ridiculous, Jim! He could be injured. We have no idea how long he's been lying there. Help might have to be immediate or—"

Jim put a hand on his shoulder. "Bones, he's not at the shuttlecraft."

Bones had a full head of steam, which meant he wasn't thinking clearly. Jim wondered what quirk of fate gave him a best friend who always went straight to emotion as a first response, and a First Officer who wouldn't know emotion if it came up and kissed him on the lips. Surely there had to be a happy medium.

"How do you _know_ he's not at the shuttlecraft?" Bones demanded. "Just because he's not responding doesn't mean he isn't there, unconscious on the floor—"

Jim turned towards Mallory. "Ensign, scan results?"

Mallory partially turned from her viewer. "Negative within 100 meters of the shuttlecraft. Widening search pattern."

"Very good, Ensign. Continue scan." Jim turned back towards Bones. "He's not at the shuttlecraft."

Bones grumbled, "You won't get a reading on him if he's dead."

Jim shot a look at Uhura. From the stiffness of her posture, he was certain she'd overheard the doctor's remark. Yet she went on with her patient attempts at communication nonetheless.

"He's not dead," Jim said firmly, wishing Bones could be a little more circumspect in his honesty. "Besides," he added, lowering his voice, "if he is, there's nothing you could do for him anyway."

"Jim—"

"Bones." Jim put his hands on Bones' shoulders. "If he's hurt, he's away from the shuttlecraft. I want you standing by in the transporter room so we can beam you to his location at a moment's notice. Doesn't that sound... logical?"

Bones subsided, his jaw working as he tried to find some way around Jim's reasoning. Then he said in a defeated tone, "I'll have a team standing by."

"Good man." Jim turned toward the forward consoles. "Mr. Sulu, you're with me. Lieutenant Uhura, have a security team of four meet us in the transporter room. Standard equipment."

"Aye, sir," she softly acknowledged.

He waited until he could catch her eye, and then gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "You have the con."

She looked momentarily surprised, then smiled with gratitude. "Thank you, Captain."

He headed for the turbolift, trying to forget the fear and determination he saw lurking in the depths of his communications officer's expressive eyes.

Jim arrived at the transporter room, Sulu at his heels, to find the security team already waiting for him. Chief Han was in charge. It embarrassed Jim, but he didn't remember the names of the rest of his team. The feisty redhead—he should know her. And that blond guy was Marron— Macson? Crap. He'd have to study the crew roster again tonight.

Scotty was manning the transporter station, a decision of which Jim approved. Routine as Emagious III's readings had been thus far, it was still an unexplored planet, and the possibilities for interference with transportation were unknown. Scotty was being assisted by Technician Lumley, a blonde bombshell that Jim knew Scotty'd had his eye on for some time. Ah, well; whatever keeps his crew happy.

"Mr. Scott," he said, automatically taking the phaser and communicator that Han held out to him, "set us down just outside the _Galileo_."

"Very good, sir."

Sulu accepted his equipment from Markson or Merkle or whoever, and joined the others on the transporter pad.

Jim nodded. "Energize."

Scotty and his fetching assistant dissolved in a series of sparkles. When the world put itself back together, Jim staggered. "Ugh." He felt as if he was being smothered in a warm, damp towel. He curled his lip. "What's that _smell_?"

"Methane, sir." Merkson was busy with his tricorder. He nodded into the distance. "Probably a result of volcanic activity."

"Volcanic?" Jim looked around, but all he could see was a vast plain, obscured by banks of mist that floated gray in the weary mid-morning light, and covered with some sort of low-lying vegetation in almost every color _except_ green.

Markle nodded again, toward the horizon. "Most likely from those mountains."

Jim looked. He couldn't see any mountains. Just mist and... what the hell _was_ this stuff coating the ground? He picked up his feet one by one, and examined the bottom of his shoes. They were wet, but not slimy. He shuddered.

"They're about 270 kilometers from here, maybe a little more," Marsden explained.

"Active?" asked Sulu.

Merrick studied his readout. "Not for about 100 years." He gave the rest of the party a reassuring smile. "We should be safe enough for now."

"Fine, good." Jim set his foot down, wincing a little as the fleshy plant he was standing on sagged beneath his weight. "Chief Han, divide your team into pairs. Perimeter search. Keep your eyes open for potential threats and unconscious Vulcans."

"Aye, sir."

Jim took a step toward the shuttlecraft, looming like an irrelevancy on that primitive landscape, and stumbled. Sulu caught his arm.

"The gravity," the helmsman murmured. "It's going to be easy to overbalance."

Jim turned to shout after the security guards, rapidly disappearing into the mist in either direction. "Watch your footing! Remember, you weigh about 20% more than you're used to. Don't break anything!"

"Acknowledged," Han called back.

Jim turned back to Sulu, then pointed at his feet. "This is disgusting."

Sulu looked surprised. "It's fungus." He stooped to examine it. "It looks like some form of Basidiomycota."

"Hooray," Jim mumbled.

Sulu glanced up. "That means it's probably edible."

"You'd _eat_ that?"

Sulu grinned. "Don't you like mushrooms, sir?"

Jim glared at the ground, horrified. "Not mushrooms as big as my whole body. Or this weird color..."

"The color is likely due to the lichen mixed in. There, you see?" Sulu swept his hand over some orange blisters on the side of an enormous brown mushroom cap. "Lichen." He studied the sky. "Despite the current moisture level, this part of the terrain must suffer periods of drought. The symbiotic relationship—"

"Will do just fine without me," Jim cut in. "Let's get inside the shuttlecraft, and try to figure out what Spock's been up to."

The _Galileo_ had the forlorn look of an abandoned vehicle that had been waiting for its owner for far too long. Part of it must have been due to the speckles of dirt on its sides and landing skids, as if numerous rain showers had passed over it, leaving their unblemished mark. Another indication was how deeply the treads were sunk into the weird groundcover—but Jim was less certain how to use this as an indicator of time passage, as he had no way of knowing how vulnerable the local... vegetation, was to the weight of a space-faring vehicle.

Jim used his override to unlock the door. With a whine of servos, the hatch lifted. Through the widening slit, Jim saw the interior lights click on. That meant that the shuttlecraft was uninhabited; or rather, that nothing had been recently moving around in there that would have triggered the lighting mechanism. Jim suppressed a wave of worry. Bones must be getting to him.

When the hatch was wide, he bounded up the first step—landed heavily, and reconsidered his decision to bound. More carefully, he stepped onto the lip of the entrance and peeked inside. While he hadn't expected it, he couldn't help releasing a sigh of relief over not seeing Spock's body sprawled on the floor, dead from eating some exotic mushroom. The craft was properly set to standby mode and all was trim, just as he might have expected a Vulcan to leave it.

Sulu was waiting behind him. "Captain?"

Jim said with false heartiness, "Everything's in order. Come on in." He then stepped down carefully into the craft, freeing the entrance so Sulu could follow.

The extra gravity was a peculiar sensation, as if he were overtired or slightly drugged. He'd worked out in elevated grav, of course, as part of his fitness training. But it was different being on the gym floor in workout gear, and standing in a shuttlecraft in a normal uniform, feeling the floor press extra hard against his feet. He supposed he could get used to it in time.

Sulu had opened the storage locker behind the pilot's seat. "His uniform," he murmured, gesturing.

Jim glanced into the bin. Spock's boots were placed side-by-side on the floor of the compartment, with his uniform neatly folded on the bench above it. A variety of dun-colored clothing lay heaped on top of the blue shirt. Kirk picked up the first item he came across; it unfolded to shape itself into a long-sleeved shirt. The material was lightweight but very tough. It would make excellent survival gear— provided that Spock had taken it with him, which he hadn't.

Sulu was observing the garment also. "I suppose he didn't need it, with the temperature as warm as it is."

Jim nodded and dropped the shirt back into the bin. He settled himself in the pilot's chair, and entered his authorization code. The console sprang to life.

"Computer," Jim ordered. "Play last log entry."

The screen came to life. Spock's sharp-angled visage sprang onto the screen. It was only a head shot, but he looked... different somehow. Perhaps it was his color; he seemed less pale, more relaxed. Make that definitely more relaxed; there wasn't much to the image, but Jim was seeing enough of Spock's neck to determine that he wasn't wearing a collar. While Jim occasionally recorded log entries shirtless, he'd never imagined his up-tight First Officer doing so. Apparently Spock's vacation was doing him good— provided he lived through it.

Jim put his visual observations on hold as the Vulcan's measured voice rolled from the speaker.

"Ship's log, Stardate 2258.158. I have relocated to the northern continent to continue my studies of the planet's ecosystem and geology. I am making preparations to survey the mountain range to the west, bearing 278 from the _Galileo_'s current position, as preliminary readings indicate potentially intriguing mineral deposits. Prior to departure, I shall survey the local flora and fauna. Unlike the continents to the south, this one boasts large quadrupeds of a variety of species. The terrain also appears to contain significant deviations from that in the south. I look forward to my new observations."

And that was it. The screen went blank.

"Six days ago," Sulu said grimly. "That's a long time for a local survey."

Jim was preoccupied. "Large quadrupeds." He rose and crossed to the security locker. "Please," he murmured. "Be smart enough to have taken your phaser." He entered his override code, and the locker door rolled open. Inside, neatly placed, lay Spock's tricorder, communicator, and phaser. Jim sighed.

Sulu hung over his shoulder. "I don't see my slingshot."

Jim was unimpressed. A slingshot was hardly an adequate weapon, but he didn't care to say that to Sulu. Instead, he crossed to the ship's comm panel and touched the appropriate button. "Kirk to _Enterprise_."

The answer was almost immediate. "_Enterprise_. Uhura here."

"We're inside the shuttlecraft. No sign of Spock, but no sign of any disturbance, either. Have you had any luck with your scans?"

There was a pause, then Mallory's voice broke in. "Negative, Captain. Expanding search radius to... 20 kilometers."

Jim paused. 20 kilometers. That seemed a long way for someone to venture on foot. He raised his voice out of habit. "Mr. Chekov."

"Chekov here."

"Spock's last log entry said he was planning to survey the mountain range to the west of this location, bearing 278. Can you give me a reading? How far away are those mountains?"

"Scanning." A moment later, the navigator said, "I read a distance of approximately 271 kilometers from your current location."

Even expecting the answer, Jim's spirits sank. There's no way Spock would try to traverse all that distance on foot, not with the shuttlecraft at hand. He probably meant to complete his survey here, and then relocate. "All right. Continue concentric scans from this location. And be advised that he didn't take his communicator, so you won't be able to lock on to him that way. Lieutenant Uhura."

"Uhura here."

"Spock didn't take his phaser either, even though he reported large quadrupeds in the vicinity. Sulu said his slingshot was missing. Would Spock have any other weapon with him?"

Uhura sounded reasonably steady, despite what must be a distressing situation. "He was bringing a sonic repeller."

"Did you actually _see_ the repeller in his gear?"

"No, sir. But he said that he would bring one. He always follows through if he definitely promises something."

Jim reassessed. So Spock had a sonic repeller and a slingshot. Still not nearly enough firepower in case of serious trouble. Spock was probably lying somewhere with a broken leg—that is, if the local quadrupeds hadn't eaten him first. Still... "What gear would Spock have brought to survey mountains in? All I saw were some pretty lightweight clothes."

"They're more rugged than you might think," Uhura answered. "Is his jacket missing?"

"I saw a long-sleeved shirt..." Jim moved back to the storage locker. Everything beneath the shirt was smaller still. The first garment he picked up unrolled into... some kind of loincloth thing with colorful symbols on the rectangular panels that hung at the front and back. He frowned. "What is this," he mumbled aloud. "A bathing suit?"

"Captain," Uhura said slowly. "Vulcans prefer to swim in the nude."

Good grief, he was holding a pair of Spock's underwear. He dropped the garment as if it had burned him. Beside him, Sulu turned sharply away, covering a snicker with his hand.

Jim glared at the helmsman. "_You_ look," he growled.

Still grinning, Sulu efficiently browsed through the pile. "No jacket," he reported.

Well, wherever Spock was laid up, in whatever state of injury, at least he wasn't naked. That was something.

"Mallory," he said to the comm, "status of scan?"

"Expanding radius to 30 kilometers," she replied. "No positive reading."

"Continue scan."

Jim sighed, then switched the frequency over to Han. "Hi, Chief. Any luck?"

Han answered in a moment. "No, sir. No higher animal lifeforms at all."

"What about, ah... Mersdale. With the tricorder. Did he find anything?"

"Marksdon. No, sir. He got readings of some form of large quadruped scattered about the plains. The closet grouping is about 50 kilometers away, to the north."

So, if the quadrupeds ate him, they'd long since moved on. "Nothing closer, Chief? No animal forms at all?"

"No, sir. None."

Bones' words echoed in Jim's mind. _You won't get a reading on him if he's dead_. Jim took a deep breath. It seemed his best option was to begin a painstaking search on foot of the area around the shuttlecraft, with the probable outcome being the discovery of Spock's remains. The whole situation seemed surreal, particularly in these weird surroundings. Yet, however it had happened, Spock's demise seemed the most likely outcome of their search.

But he couldn't bring himself to say that, not with Spock's lady love listening from the sky. Jim switched the comm link back to surface-to-ship. "_Enterprise_."

"Uhura here."

"Lieutenant..." Jim considered his phrasing. "Begin ordering search parties for a Phase 1 search. We're looking for a missing man who might not be in a position to call for help." He paused. "Do you read me, Lieutenant?"

The delay was slightly longer than was probably required. Then, "Yes, sir. I'll arrange for search parties now."

"Two-man teams," Jim added. "Set them down at increasing distance from the shuttlecraft at regularly spaced intervals. We'll want to search the ground meter by meter."

"I understand, sir. Uhura out."

Jim sighed. There's no way she could have missed the implications of his orders. Jim looked at the pile of rumpled clothing in the storage locker. "Damn you, Spock," he growled. "Why'd you have to go and..."

But he couldn't finish the sentence. Wearily, he straightened. "All right, Sulu, let's look for any other clues as to where he might have gone. After that, we'll start searching the terrain ourselves."

Sulu was grave. "Aye, sir."

Feeling exhausted, Jim slumped into the pilot's chair. He might as well play Spock's entire log, for all the good it would do. He found it unbelievably depressing that these were probably the last words Spock would ever say.

Gloomily, Jim began playback.


	18. Uhura gets an idea

Nyota's mouth was dry as she ordered search party after search party down to the planet's surface. _He's fine_, she repeated firmly to herself. There's some local interference, something that's preventing the sensors from being able to locate him. The search parties will find him shortly.

It had been 20 minutes since Kirk's call. They had pretty good coverage now for the area ten kilometers around the _Galileo_. Per standard procedure, the teams called in every 10 minutes. All reports so far had been negative.

Nyota refused to panic. Spock was experienced in getting around out of doors; he wasn't likely to fall prey to misadventure... was he?

_Prey_. She shot a look at Mallory, focused intently on her scanner. She and Chekov had increased the search radius to 50 kilometers from the shuttlecraft. With each increase in distance, the scan took longer, because they had so much more area to cover. Mallory looked grim. Nyota hadn't the smallest doubt that the tiniest twitch in her readings would be seized upon instantly. But so far, their new science officer had had no luck, nothing to break her concentration.

However, once the concern entered Nyota's mind, she couldn't dismiss it. Licking her lips, she said to Mallory, "Have you run across any of those quadrupeds yet?"

"Yes, sir," Mallory answered, formal in deference to Nyota's command position. "There's a herd of them at the edge of my search radius."

"Can you scan them? Give me a better idea of what they are?"

Mallory made an adjustment. "Scanning."

Nyota counted the seconds. Mallory's analysis took long enough that yet another search party had time to call in and report their status: negative.

"The creatures are a species of unknown type," Mallory announced. "It's hard to say how they might map into our designated categories without a more detailed evaluation."

"Are they..." Nyota hated to ask, but had to. "Are they carnivorous?"

Mallory went silent again. Nyota listened to the accelerated beat of her own heart.

"They fit the general physiology of herbivores," Mallory said at last, to Nyota's momentary relief. "But they have a peculiar mouth structure... it's hard to say what they might eat."

"Digestive track?" Lo asked. She was primarily watching Mallory, as there were few engineering functions for her to be engaged in during a standard orbit.

"Medium-length gut," Mallory responded. "They could be omnivores."

"If they're in a herd," Chekov volunteered from his station, "they vould most likely be herbiwores, yes?"

"Not necessarily," said Lo. "The swamp tigers of Capella A hunt in large packs."

"As do wolves and many other wild canids on Earth," Mallory added.

"And the gorgul beasts of Lambda Serpentis," said Chekov. "I forgot about those."

"Not to mention velociraptors," Lo chimed in. "Wrong class, but they were definitely plains predators."

"The verebats of Ursae Majoris are said to descend upon their wictims in a giant cloud," Chekov said eagerly, warming to the topic.

"_Enough!_" Nyota rubbed her temples in the wake of her outburst. The restored silence on the bridge rebuked her for her loss of control. "I'm sorry," she added more quietly. "I'd appreciate relevant contributions to the problem at hand, but I don't think Spock was sucked to death by a giant cloud of bats."

"Sorry," Lo murmured.

"My apologies," Chekov said miserably, which made Nyota feel even worse.

"That's all right," she said encouragingly. "I don't mean to stifle discussion. Just... try to keep it on target."

Chekov relaxed marginally. "I vill, Lieutenant."

Nyota sighed, then hastened to respond to a couple of additional search parties reporting in.

"How many teams are out now?" Lo asked, after Nyota finished logging their replies.

"We've got 18 four-man teams on the ground," Nyota responded. "Each team is divided into pairs, but they're coordinating their efforts through the team leaders. We've got two more teams prepping the onboard shuttlecraft, but they haven't launched yet."

Lo frowned. "That still leaves about 40 people unaccounted for from Security. What's up with them?"

Nyota shot her a quick look. "Do you think I should wake them up?"

Lo sat back. "Oh, right. Split shifts. Well... should we?"

"We could ask for wolunteers from other departments," Chekov offered.

"We can't guarantee they'd know how to respond in an emergency situation," Nyota answered automatically. Then she thought it through and responded more thoughtfully, "We can't put unnecessary numbers of people at risk, just to look for one person."

Lo smiled. "You sound like Spock."

Nyota couldn't smile back. She didn't want to sound like Spock; she wanted to hear Spock speak for himself. "Security is trained for ground assignments," she answered resignedly. "Most of our crew are technical specialists." She shook her head. "I can't run risks with their personal safety."

Lo turned back to her station. "You're stronger than I am, Nyota."

Nyota didn't feel very strong. Only her confidence in Spock's ability to handle himself in untoward circumstances kept her from crawling out of her skin.

Despite herself, her mind wandered back to his unexpectedly intimate communication nearly two weeks ago. _Here, the air enfolds one like a soft blanket, holding in the heat of day and releasing it gently, hour after hour, like a considerate friend as one flees along beneath the stars_. She had not known Spock had such poetry in him. Or rather, she had suspected it, but never expected it to surface so strongly or so soon.

They had exchanged one further round of messages, equally personal, after Nyota had received Spock's first astonishingly personal breakthrough. Would these be the last words of love she'd ever hear from him? She shook her head sharply. Unthinkable. But once Spock's original letter was back in her mind, she couldn't help replaying it mentally, so often had she listened to it, embracing the words in the darkness of her cabin through the long reaches of the night.

_I ran through the darkness tonight. For hour upon hour, I knew only the feel of the wind upon my skin.._.

Nyota frowned. Spock's jacket was missing. Vulcans had incredible endurance. _I ran through the darkness.._.

Thinking hard, she turned slightly toward Mallory. "Ensign?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," the science officer responded promptly. "Expanding search radius to 60 kilometers."

"Never mind that," said Nyota—making half the heads on the bridge turn her way. "I'd like you to alter the search pattern to scan... bearing 278, from the _Galileo_."

"Toward the mountains?" Chekov asked.

"Toward the mountains," she confirmed. "How wide is your search path?"

Mallory said, "I can get ten kilometers with high resolution, and another five, a little fuzzy, on either side of it."

"That will do. Begin scanning from your last search radius, directly toward the mountains."

"You think he valked there." Chekov's tone was laden with disbelief. "271 kilometers from the shuttlecraft."

Nyota nodded to Mallory. "Go ahead, Ensign."

Mallory held her gaze for a moment. An unspoken message of trust—not in each other, but in their mutual friend—passed between them. Then Mallory turned and smoothly adjusted her instruments. "Altering search pattern."

"Mr. Chekov," Nyota said, "track the scan area. I want exact coordinates available in case we do find him."

"Aye." Chekov sounded skeptical. But his willingness didn't matter, only his compliance.

Mallory bent over the scanner, reporting her progress. "Passing 60 kilometers from the shuttlecraft... 70."

Intent as Nyota was on Mallory's readouts, she had to break off to log the reports, still negative, from two more ground teams. When she was able to return her concentration to the bridge, Mallory picked up with her recital. "Passing 140 kilometers from the shuttlecraft... 145. 150 kilometers..."

Nyota felt her breath catching.

"How long would it take someone to walk 150 kilometers?" Lo whispered to an officer beside her, but Nyota hadn't attention to spare for the response.

"Passing 160 kilometers... 165." Mallory went rigid. "Found him."

Nyota's heart leaped into her throat.

"There he is!" she squealed, face still pressed to the scanner. "At the northern edge of my field."

"Confirmed," Chekov said almost immediately. "Range... 169 kilometers from the shuttlecraft." He turned around to give Nyota a strange look. "Vhat is he doing vay out there?"

Nyota didn't care. Her heart surged with relief. Her hand flew out on its own to hit the ship-to-surface link. "_Enterprise_, calling Captain Kirk."

In a moment, Nyota heard the worried reply. "Kirk here."

"Captain, we've found him." She could hardly form the words, she was so giddy from released tension.

She actually heard him sigh. "Where is he?"

"169 kilometers west-northwest of you."

There was a pause, doubtless for Kirk to process his surprise. "One hundred and—"

"Target is moving beyond scanning field," Mallory said quickly. "Bearing... 97 degrees. That's toward the shuttlecraft."

Chekov quickly checked his instruments. "I'm reading the same. Target is moving, speed fluctuating between... 20 and 21 kilometers per hour." Chekov looked back at Nyota with a frown. "Can Mr. Spock run that fast?"

Kirk's voice interrupted. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't quite hear that."

Nyota upped the volume on her comm link. "Mallory and Chekov are reporting that Mr. Spock is moving at... a pretty good clip."

"He's a marathon runner!" Chekov cried with delight.

"Maybe he brought a rover with him," Lo speculated.

"Negative," Mallory said, still hunched over her scanner. "I read no mechanical conveyances. But there are..."

Nyota's stomach clenched. "Yes?"

"Numerous animal forms on all sides." Mallory spared Nyota a telling glance. "They're surrounding him."

"Our quadrupeds?" Nyota asked.

"Affirmative." Mallory returned to her scan. "Closing in on all sides."

Chekov called, "Speed increasing. Now averaging... 26 kilometers per hour."

"Are they chasing him?" Nyota asked breathlessly. She envisioned Spock running before a herd of strange, omnivorous beasts—a helpless, sentient prey.

Mallory gazed into her viewer. "Unable to ascertain. Spock and the animal forms seem to be moving together. They're definitely reacting to each other."

"Now at... 31 kilometers per hour!" Chekov looked around with wide eyes. "They're racing!"

Kirk apparently overheard enough to alarm him. "Transporter room!" he cut in. "Scotty, beam Mr. Spock up now!"

Scotty's voice came over the link. "I cannae beam him up without coordinates, Captain."

Nyota spun in her chair toward the navigation console. "Chekov! Get those coordinates to the transporter room, fast!"

Chekov's fingers were already flying over his panel. "Transferring Mr. Spock's position..."

"Spock's in the middle of this herd," Mallory said grimly. "Mr. Scott won't be able to isolate his signature."

Nyota pressed her intercom link. "Scotty! Resolve Mr. Spock's signature based on science station readings. There are other lifeforms in the field."

"Working," Scotty's assistant, Lumley, cut in. Apparently Scotty was busy with the transport operation.

"Transporter room!" Kirk cried. "Do you have him?"

"Stand by," Lumley answered. There was an agonizing pause. Then she said, with a strangely flat intonation, "Yeah."

Everyone on the bridge released a held breath. Nyota wondered if a person could faint from relief.

Kirk appeared affected more by Lumley's lack of professionalism than by Spock's rescue. "_Yeah?_" he asked sarcastically. "What do you mean, _'Yeah'_?"

Lumley said, in a dreamy voice that sent chills down Nyota's spine, "_Oooooooh yeah_."


	19. Scotty exercises his judgment

Spock was running with the _pa'ash-limuk_. Though their herd pace was slower than his normal running speed, they were his best protection against the giant otter-like carnivore that preyed upon the herbivorous plains-dwellers—a creature that Spock, in a moment of nostalgia, had dubbed _le-matya t'eiktra_—the le-matya of the plains. True, the new discovery exhibited little of the Vulcan predator's characteristics, apart from savage claws and a tendency to feed upon whatever hapless creature came to hand. However, as the first scientist to describe the animal, Spock felt he should be granted some leniency with nomenclature.

The _pa'ash-limuk_ were themselves fascinating creatures. Coarse-haired and stocky, with multi-toed feet, they resembled something like a cross between a Terran baboon and a llama, but were as large as horses. Their unusually small heads rested on top of a thick, elongated neck. A single nostril opened at the top of the head; from it, the _pa'ash-limuk_ emitted a series of mellifluous tones, each of them meaningful within the context of the herd.

When he had begun studying them, six days earlier, he had been unaware of the deep, sustained boom that warned of the approach of their natural enemy, the Emagian _le-matya_. Spock was then unprepared for their reaction. On that first day, with patience, he had worked his way into the center of the herd, observing the beasts using their peculiar, flattened mouths and rasping tongues to scrape up lichen and fungi from the plain. Though interested in his presence, they were not unduly alarmed; doubtless they could tell by his scent that he ate no meat. As a humanoid, he was beyond their experience, so they were content to keep a wary eye on him and go about their normal affairs.

Then one of the beasts on the perimeter of the herd had issued the booming warning call. Heads went up as one, and the herd bolted, drawing close together as they picked up speed. Spock ran with them; he had deduced the likely cause of their behavior, and judged it prudent to take evasive action until he should have time to study whatever predator stalked them.

Sensible though his action may have been in that regard, Spock soon realized, as the herd crowded closer in their defensive behavior, that he was at risk of being crushed between the barrel-shaped bodies. He had no choice but to grasp the rough-haired "mane" of the closest _pa'ash-limuk_ and swing himself up on its back. The beast had not been pleased with this move, and it spent the next quarter of an hour bucking and bleating, trying to dislodge him, even as it continued to run with herd. As a result, Spock's first glimpse of the _le-matya t'eiktra_ had been rather choppy. Fortunately, he was able to follow up his initial experience with more detailed observations the following day, when he had the opportunity of watching from a hidden vantage point as the carnivore stalked and brought down a _pa'ash-limuk_ in another herd.

On the third day, Spock broke off his studies of the plains creatures to move into the mountains. The geology was as interesting as he had anticipated; over the next two days, his small pack bulged with mineral specimens he intended to take back to the shuttlecraft for further analysis. The air was surprisingly warm; he found he needed to wear his jacket and long pants only overnight, when the temperatures fell. During the day, his movement kept him sufficiently warm that the _sahr-fek_ sufficed, regardless of the terrain.

The mountain journey was therefore less arduous than he had predicted. The weather was accommodating, the ice fields manageable; in fact, the only difficulty he encountered was on the evening of the fourth day. He was descending a rocky channel from one range of peaks into the neighboring valley, a circumstance which unfortunately rendered flight problematic. From a hundred yards above his right shoulder, he heard a clattering of rock and a sharp whistle. He turned to find two stocky, short-legged creatures with heavily armored skin, reminiscent of a Terran ankylosaur, scuttling his way. As a departure from their Ankylosauridean relatives, however, these sported impressive boar-like tusks, which they popped at him in animal fury. The sonic repeller had no effect; neither did Sulu's noxious pellets slow their charge. But when he smeared a lichen-covered stone with some of Dr. McCoy's firestarter material and aimed the shot right under the nose of the first at point-blank range, the resulting bang and flash of fire was enough to drive the creatures away. He must remember to thank the good doctor for giving him such a useful defensive tool.

He bivouacked in the foothills the final night, and then rebundled his pack securely for the long race across the plains. He was certain that a message awaited him from Nyota, and he did not wish to keep her waiting long enough that she became concerned. Pleasurable as it had been, he would be unable to make such a lengthy excursion again. Prudence dictated that he remain within a day's travel of the shuttlecraft during his last couple of days. He had calculated the odds at 86% for an early termination of his leave; Starfleet was notoriously possessive of its officers' time. However, they had shown extraordinary generosity in granting him an entire Earth month to reflect upon and sort out his personal issues. In that regard, his leave had been a complete success. Were he forced to leave Emagious III this morning, Spock thought as he began his run in the predawn light, he felt sufficiently composed that he should be able to carry out his duties with his customary efficiency.

The morning passed pleasurably. The dryer terrain of the foothills gave way to the moist, fungal covering of the plains. Comfortable now with the gravity and his footing, Spock made good speed. The misty banks that hovered above the plains seemed like familiar acquaintances; the herds of _pa'ash-limuk_ that rose out of the fog were welcome friends. Often they took Spock's movement as a signal that they themselves should run; in these instances, Spock ran along with them, until the herd—whether out of tiring or a sense of territoriality—turned aside, and he continued his journey alone.

The morning was much advanced, and Spock had completed nearly 40% of his return journey. It was during one of these companionable interludes with the herdbeasts that he heard the characteristic call: the deep boom that signaled the presence of a _le-matya t'eiktra_. Familiar as he was now with the _pa'ash-limuk_'s response, Spock glided effortlessly toward the center of the tightening herd. He moved as the beasts moved, anticipating their reactions sufficiently that this time he was in no danger of being crushed. In fact, the puffing, charging bodies all around him merely added zest to the invigorating nature of the day. He increased his speed with theirs, enjoying the opportunity to really stretch his legs and cover some ground.

It was in the midst of this activity that he felt the telltale tingle in his extremities that signaled contact with a transporter beam. Spock experienced a brief moment of alarm. After all, the _Enterprise_ was not supposed to retrieve him; he was intended to rendezvous with them in space at the end of his leave. Yet some other starship happening to come across him on this uninhabited planet and choosing to beam him aboard was more unlikely still. Logic suggested that the _Enterprise_ had come for him early. Being unable to contact him by communicator (which was safely stowed in the _Galileo_), they naturally would have scanned the surface to locate him.

His speculations were confirmed a moment later, when the redolent plains were replaced by the sterile confines of the _Enterprise_'s transporter room. Instantly Spock felt the cooler air of this human environment embrace him; the brief_ sahr-fek_ had not been manufactured for such an atmosphere. While it was not precisely inappropriate for Spock to be out of uniform, as technically his leave had not ended, his present dress was not comfortable for current conditions. He intended to change as soon as possible.

Mr. Scott and Technician Lumley were behind the transporter console, while Dr. McCoy and Nurse Chapel stood beside them. Although they must have anticipated his arrival, every one of them was staring at him in a most peculiar manner. It was a fixed, open-mouthed gaze. In Spock's experience, humans were rather more vocal than otherwise. Yet the only person who said anything was Lumley, who merely murmured, inexplicably, "_Oooooh, yeah_."

Mr. Scott immediately pressed his comm button. "He's here, Captain, all in one piece." He paused. "He looks very well."

"Thank you, Mr. Scott. Check him over, will you?"

"That's what the doctor's here for."

Spock was pleased to note that Mr. Scott had compensated for his forward momentum; otherwise, he'd have sprinted straight off the transporter pad and run headlong into the nurse, an impact that could only have led to deplorable consequences. He took a moment to adjust to the ship's gravity, and then started to step off the pad.

Dr. McCoy recovered from his momentary stupor and stepped forward, hand raised. "Hold it right there, Spock!" He turned toward Mr. Scott and Technician Lumley. "Decontaminate," he ordered.

Technician Lumley made no move to comply, merely continued gazing at Spock. She seemed to have an unnatural rigidity to her posture, as did Nurse Chapel. Most unusual.

Mr. Scott leaned over in front of his assistant and pressed the appropriate button. The familiar hum and flicker of the decontamination beam played over Spock's body.

"So, what were you doing down there?" McCoy said genially, checking through his bag for particular instrument. "Running from a pack of wild dogs?"

Obviously the sensors had picked up the movement of the _pa'ash-limuk_ just before they'd beamed him aboard. "No."

McCoy looked up, surprised. Technician Lumley and Nurse Chapel simply looked. "You _weren't_ running from a wild animal," the doctor said doubtfully. "Jim made the beam-up sound urgent."

Spock saw no reason to make an issue out of a perfectly normal attack of a _le-matya t'eiktra_ on its natural prey. "I was _running_," he answered.

"I see." McCoy found the instrument he wanted and waved it through the air in Spock's direction, its chirp supplementing the cyclic hum of the decontamination beam. "Don't tell me," he said through the interference. "That's a special Vulcan running suit."

Spock stood a little taller. "It is called a _sahr-fek_."

"Huh." McCoy adjusted his settings. "It suits you." The doctor seemed to be in a good mood. Spock wasn't certain he'd ever seen Dr. McCoy in a good mood before; certainly not with him. He wasn't certain how to interpret it. Perhaps his absence had had a beneficial impact on crew morale. It would be regrettable if his presence had a dampening effect on the optimal functioning of the crew.

Yet, Dr. McCoy seemed to be weathering his reappearance rather well. "Just be patient another minute, Spock," he said in his relaxed country twang. "I want to make sure you aren't bringing any bugs aboard."

"He looks... really healthy," Technician Lumley muttered. "Really. Healthy."

"Very fit," murmured Nurse Chapel.

McCoy seemed both irritated and amused. "Why don't you check his pulse and blood pressure, Nurse Chapel? Then you'll know." When the nurse continued not to move, McCoy mumbled, "Then again, maybe you ought to check your own."

Nurse Chapel jumped. "I'm sorry, Doctor." She began waving her own little chirping device in the air. Spock noticed that she was studying him quite closely, doubtless searching for any physical impairments. Her concern for his well-being was commendable, although unnecessary.

"I assure you, Doctor," Spock announced, "I am quite in the peak of health. Furthermore, having spent 28.6 days on Emagious III, I can assure you that there are no inimical organisms present either on the planet's surface or my own."

McCoy continued his examination. He was in a peculiar mood, as he seemed to be fighting a smile. "It never hurts to be sure, Mr. Spock."

Technician Lumley had recovered to the degree where she had pressed the intercom link. She bent low and spoke rapidly into it, never taking her eyes from Spock. He could not understand her fascination with present events; perhaps she had never observed a decontamination cycle before. He could not read her expression, but the rapid movement of her mouth and the intensity of her gaze suggested she had something urgent to communicate. Unfortunately, Spock could not make out the substance of her call over the hum and whine of the equipment. Only a word here and there, such as "amazing" or "unbelievable," escaped the interference.

Spock glanced around, but could observe nothing that would warrant such attention. Mr. Scott, at his technician's side, seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. In fact, he seemed to follow Lumley's conversation with amusement. Spock concluded therefore that nothing very serious was out of order.

McCoy turned off his scanner. "Okay, you're clean." He turned toward the transporter console. "Mr. Scott, you can turn off the beam."

Mr. Scott did so, reaching around his assistant once again. Lumley, still gazing at Spock, bit her lower lip. "So, um, you're okay, Mr. Spock?"

"Perfectly, Technician. I thank you."

McCoy directed his gaze toward Nurse Chapel, who was continuing her scans beside him with rapt attention. "Thank you, Nurse," McCoy said loudly. "I think we have enough data now to ascertain Mr. Spock's condition."

Nurse Chapel started as her concentration was broken. She really did show a most estimable interest in the health of the crew, although in Spock's opinion she must work on her ability to remain cognizant of her surroundings at the same time. "Yes, Doctor. I'm sorry. I just wanted to be sure..." She lifted her gaze to meet Spock's eyes. "Are you certain you're all right?"

"Yes, Nurse."

"Because if you feel dizzy or ill, or disoriented from the change in pressure and atmosphere, I'd be happy to look you over further in Sickbay."

"Such an examination would be unnecessary. I assure you that I am perfectly well." He once again began to step off the pad.

"Mr. Spock!" Scotty called. "You're wanted immediately on the bridge."

Spock hesitated. "Very well, Engineer. I will report there as soon as I have changed into my uniform."

"No, sir. Now, sir. Right away." Mr. Scott looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spock. It's just that we got this message from New Vulcan that no one can translate. It came in a day and a half ago, and we can't make heads or tails of it."

Spock frowned. "Lieutenant Uhura was unable to translate?"

"That's just the trouble, sir. She got most of it, but there's this part in the middle that we can't understand. We're at our wits end. The captain rushed us over here hoping you'd be able to shed some light." Mr. Scott gave him a serious look. "It could affect the whole mission."

McCoy was staring at Mr. Scott with amazement. "Scotty... _what are you talking about?_"

Mr. Scott glared at him. "The message from New Vulcan. With all due respect, Doctor, your responsibility begins and ends with medicine. Ye'd do best to let me use my own judgment in matters pertaining to the mission at hand!"

McCoy raised his hands and took a step back, shaking his head. "Fine, Scotty, whatever. Go ahead."

Technician Lumley hurried forward. "I'll escort Mr. Spock to the bridge."

Spock was puzzled. "Technician, an escort will not be necessary."

"What she meant to say," Scotty said, stepping forward himself, "was that the turbolifts are out of order."

"They're _what_?" McCoy yelled.

"They are," Scotty continued. "The entire deck." He turned back to Spock. "You'll have to take the access tunnel down by the main junction."

McCoy's expression resumed its familiar glare. "I came _down_ here on the turbolift."

"That ye did, Doctor, but they've broken down since. Just now, in fact."

Spock nodded; that explained the urgent communication Technician Lumley was making earlier over the intercom. He strode forward. "Very well, Engineer. I shall do as you advise."

"Thank you, sir. I'll get right on these repairs."

"Thank you, Engineer. Report your status to the bridge."

"Aye, sir."

The transporter room doors opened, and a surprising number of people sprang back from the entrance to give him room to enter the hall. Many of them, the women in particular, exhibited the same wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare that Spock had observed on the faces of those behind him when he'd first materialized. As his arrival aboard ship was obviously well known, he could see no logical reason for such surprise.

Perhaps Dr. McCoy's wild animal story had circulated throughout the ship. "I am uninjured," he said to the group in general, as a means of reassurance.

"Yes," said the closest woman, a physicist named Guthrie. "You certainly are."

"Very fit," murmured another.

Spock nodded, and turned in the direction of the main junction. There were an extraordinary number of people in the corridor. Typically he would see an average of 3.4 crewmen along this passageway at this time of day. Today, however, there were at least twenty, not counting the group he'd left at the transporter room door. Most of them were hurrying his way, then stood off to the side and stared as he approached. Were they dismayed by his return? They did not greet or recognize him in any verbal way; overall, their behavior was very odd. He nodded acknowledgement, and continued on his way.

As he neared the junction, he could see yet more crewmembers hurriedly ascending the access tunnel ladder from a lower level and springing into the hall. Obviously the turbolift malfunction on this deck was severely impacting the efficient movement of crewmembers all over the ship. Clearly, more effective measures must be put in place to handle personnel relocation when one or more of the turbolifts were off-line. At the next department head meeting, he intended to raise the issue with Mr. Scott.

As before, the crewmembers around the access tunnel wordlessly made way for him, backing awkwardly into the walls with wide eyes. It baffled Spock that he could not interpret their expressions. They did not precisely seem happy or unhappy to see him, so his morale theory received no assistance either way, although their eyes followed him eagerly. It was most perplexing.

"Up ladder," he said, as he reached the access tunnel.

"Yes, sir!" answered the crewmember in casual dress just stepping from the tube. Spock recognized her; Ensign Pok, from Security. She was assigned to the night shift; it was curious that she should be up. Still, from the way her eyes sparkled, she seemed completely alert. Perhaps she was assisting with the turbolift malfunction. He nodded and stepped past her.

All down the hall, Spock had been quietly relishing the ease of movement brought about by operating in a lighter gravity. Released from the planet's heavy grip, his strides were long and light, his gait unusually springy. It reminded him of when he had first relocated to Earth. Intrigued by the way the reduced gravity seemed to amplify his strength, the 17-year-old Spock had engaged in a variety of what might be considered reckless stunts—rock climbing and cliff diving and so forth. It was a liberating feeling that complemented the way he felt inside, freed of his parents' influence and ready to pursue his own course in life.

Today, striding up the starship's corridor, he felt much the same: energized and loose, ready to take on the world. He did not normally engage in feats that showed off his physical strength; he felt such demonstrations to have an alienating influence upon the humans with whom he primarily worked. Yet, faced with the access tunnel ladder, he couldn't resist the impulse to test himself in this lighter gravity. Instead of grabbing the rails and ascending the rungs—which would be the normal mode of locomotion—Spock simply flexed his legs and bounded up the inside of the tunnel. At the peak of his lunge, he grasped the rails and propelled himself upward in a mighty push, turning at the apex of his leap to spring out the opening onto the next floor. He landed lightly, pleased with his dexterity.

He looked up, to find he'd almost bounded into a female crewmember who'd been about to descend the ladder in the direction from which he'd just come. She gasped and stood back, stepping into her male companion in her haste, although her preventive action still only managed to put eighteen centimeters of space between them. She stared up at him, her eyes huge.

"Forgive me..." Spock ran over the crew's profiles in his head, "Biologist Mubarak. I carelessly neglected to consider that someone might be about to descend the shaft. I trust that I did not startle you too badly."

The woman continued to stare. This hall, too, had an unusual amount of activity, with at least a dozen crewmembers converging on the access tunnel. They all froze in their tracks at Spock's abrupt appearance.

Spock narrowed his eyes at the unresponsive woman in front of him. "Crewman, are you well?"

"She's fine, sir," the crewman behind her said nervously. He had a protective hand on her elbow, but she seemed unaware of his presence.

"Forgive me, Ensign Vandenbosch, but her reactions seem significantly impaired."

"No," Vandenbosch said hurriedly. "She's fine, really."

"Su... suh... sir," Biologist Mubarak stammered—and then said no more.

Spock met the crewman's eye. "Perhaps you should escort her to Sickbay."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do that."

As Spock turned to leave, Vandenbosch called after him, "Welcome back, sir!"

The staring people lining each wall smiled then, too. Perhaps they were not in fact distressed by his return, as Spock had speculated earlier. They were merely restraining themselves from an exuberant show of welcome out of deference to his known preference for nonemotion. That would be a pleasing turn of events. However, he still intended to ask the Captain at some future point about the crew's morale, comparing the period during his absence with that following his return. Perhaps he could make some adjustments in his own behavior that would better support crew amity.

"Thank you, Ensign," he responded to Vandenbosch. "It is agreeable to be back."

Someone behind him, some other member of the crew, mumbled to someone else, "He's got an agreeable _back_." At least, that's what it sounded like. Yet it was such an illogical statement—how could a _back_ be agreeable?—that Spock dismissed it from his mind.

Nodding to passing crewmen, who continued to stand aside and stare with astonishing regularity, he continued his course to the bridge.


	20. Spock makes an entrance

Nyota did not relax until she heard Mr. Scott's confirmation of Spock's beam-up: _He's here, Captain, all in one piece. He looks very well_.

Upon hearing the words, the bridge crew broke into a spontaneous cheer. The exhibition warmed Nyota's heart. She knew that Spock was respected as a commander—no one felt safer with his decisions—but, as with most Vulcans, his reserved personality did not always sit well with the crew. To hear them cheering his rescue added to the happiness galloping through her that left her almost too giddy to work.

But work she must. First, there was the captain to follow-up with. It turned out that he wanted to remain on the planet a few minutes and arrange with Security for the shuttlecraft to be flown back to the _Enterprise_. Then Nyota had to contact and make arrangements for beam-up for each of the 17 remaining teams (divided into 34 pairs) that were scattered around the surface. Mr. Scott's transporter was tied up at the moment for decontamination purposes, so she had to place technicians in yet another transporter room so they could expediently beam the search teams aboard.

All of this took several minutes. When she looked around again, she gave a start. Her first impression was that the bridge was strikingly full. Her second impression was that very few of these extra people appeared to be engaged in any meaningful work. Her third impression was that most of these extra people were women.

She looked at Mallory, but as usual, her neighbor was crouched over the scanner, oblivious to her surroundings—probably doing some follow-up readings on the planet. Beyond her, Lo was surrounded by a gaggle of her engineering cohorts. Nyota recognized Technicians Karlsson and Arnaudo, Lumley's pals, among them. They were bunched into a loose huddle, and Arnaudo was whispering, "...got the word out to the whole Engineering staff before he'd even left the transporter room. Between her and Lisa in Security—"

Nyota pricked up her ears. "Who got the word out?"

The entire group started and looked around at her guiltily. Then Lo said, "I thought you were busy with your calls."

"I'm done." Nyota narrowed her eyes. "Who got the word out? Lumley?" None of the others would meet her eyes. "What word?"

Nyota was about to insist, but during the pause in the conversation, the hiss of the bridge door opening came clearly across. Nyota's heart beat quickly, eager for it to be who she thought it was. She spun in her chair toward the door—and froze.

As did everyone else. Across the bridge, every single person went motionless, staring fixedly toward the same point, about two meters inside the door, where Spock was now standing.

With unusually shaggy hair. And a tan. In a loincloth. Spock had come to the bridge wearing nothing but a loincloth. If she weren't so confused, Nyota thought she might faint.

Noticing the absolute silence (as if anyone could have missed it), Spock said softly into the stillness, "Pardon me. I understood that the captain was here."

Everyone continued to stare, their brains too occupied to be able to process speech. Then Nyota found her voice.

"He's still on the planet."

Spock looked her way. Her heart leapt. It was her Spock—her own Spock back again. She could see it in his stance, in his eyes. However doubtful she and Kirk had been about this whole planetary venture, obviously his unorthodox healing method had worked. As tortured as he'd been when he had left for Emagious III, he had somehow managed to put the strains of the recent past behind him.

And acquired some awesome muscles in the process. Spock, in the manner of most Vulcans, was long and lean—a greyhound type of athlete. Nyota had always admired his build. But whatever else Emagious III had done for him, it had bulked up his physique. When he started walking in Nyota's direction, he actually _rippled_. It was hypnotic, watching the muscles flicker and bunch under the skin. Nyota couldn't look away.

Curiously, Spock did not walk up to her. Instead, his course took him to her neighbor, Ensign Mallory.

Mallory had spun around from her console, like everyone else, when Spock had entered the room. Now she was absorbed in watching this strangely altered Spock—this relaxed, muscular, feral Spock—walk across the room. She was actually leaning back against her console, hands braced there as if for support. The moment Mallory realized that Spock's path would lead directly to her, her eyes grew wider and her mouth dropped open. Beyond her, Lo and her friends were in a similar state. Observing this, Nyota shut her own mouth with a snap—realizing that she herself was not immune.

Spock stopped about one meter from Mallory. Wearing nothing on his feet but his skintight running shoes, he still towered over her. "Ensign Mallory?" he inquired.

She nodded. Nyota didn't blame her. In her shoes, she wouldn't have been able to speak either.

Spock continued in his deep voice, "I hear that you have been appreciating my enhancements."

Mallory's jaw dropped. She looked terrified. "Your enh... enhancements?"

Spock nodded past her towards the science station. "The adjustments I made to the controls. Do you find them suitable?"

Mallory's breath came out with a rush. She looked near to fainting. "Oh. Oh, yes. Very suitable. Extremely suitable. Marvelous... marvelous enhancements."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I consider them a work in progress. I would greatly appreciate hearing your thoughts regarding the utility of the design for general use."

"Yes! Oh, yes. Happy. Happy to discuss at your leisure. Any time. Yes."

Spock nodded just as if Mallory had not been reduced to a gibbering mess, and turned toward Nyota. She felt the warmth of his gaze as a rush of excitement through her body. Close as he was like this, she could catch his scent: the clean smell of exercise from a toned body, a musky dampness of moist terrain, a deeper scent of sulfur and a sharp, flinty smell that reminded her of mountains. He was near enough now, too, for her to see the small speckles of dirt that clung to his shoes and lower legs, some of the flecks still moist...

Spock greeted her formally, as was his custom on the bridge. He was so composed, he almost might not have been standing there about 98% naked. Almost. "Lieutenant, I understand from Mr. Scott that there is a communication of some urgency awaiting me."

Nyota stared. "There is?"

Spock frowned slightly. "A communication from New Vulcan." There was the slightest query in his voice. "He said you were unable to translate..?"

Nyota came to herself with a start. "Oh! The New Vulcan thing." She hurried to pull up the relevant file. She knew that her hands were shaking, and that Spock would see it. She wasn't sure how she was going to explain it to him; she wasn't sure she could explain it herself. All she knew was that her limbs were weak, and she wanted nothing more than to take that gorgeous Vulcan below-decks right now and... have a personal communication with him.

"Here it is, sir." She was uncharacteristically flustered. _Nyota, get a grip!_ She pushed the playback button.

She watched Spock's face as he inclined slightly toward her to hear the playback. He listened with the single-minded concentration that was his hallmark, but even so, the quality of his concentration was different. He really did seem more at peace with himself, more centered. In fact, he had to have been. She couldn't imagine the Spock of five weeks ago striding around the bridge in a loincloth, completely unconcerned about the possible impact to his dignity. No, this vacation had _definitely_ been good for him. She felt her breath quicken. With luck, it would also be very good for _her_...

When Spock got to the part of the message that talked about the _kashek-shoret wak_, a tiny frown developed between his upswept eyebrows. It had smoothed away by the time of the message's end. Nyota looked closely, but Spock was fully in control. She hadn't a clue as to what his emotional reaction to the message was.

"So," Mallory asked timidly, "what is it? The _kashek-shoret wak_?"

Spock straightened. He was still facing Nyota, pondering the message. Behind him, Lo, Karlsson, and Arnaudo were frankly staring at his ass. It was easy to do, as that little rectangle of fabric by no means provided adequate coverage. It was more like a decoration to help show off the glorious curve of each fabulously sculpted butt cheek. When he'd stood in profile a moment earlier, talking to Mallory, it had been all Nyota could do not to reach out and... stroke him.

But, of course, she couldn't say anything to Lo and her friends now, or Spock would hear. And fixated as their attention was, her warning scowl went unnoticed.

Spock was busy answering Mallory. "Loosely translated," he said thoughtfully to the air, "the phrase means, 'Time when those of like mind are drawn together.'" He narrowed his eyes and murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, "Such a thing has not happened since the days of Surak."

"But vhat does it _mean_?" Chekov asked from the navigation console.

Spock hesitated. "It is a Vulcan..."

"Ritual?" asked Mallory.

"Festival?" asked Lo.

"Practice?" asked Karlsson.

"...thing," finished Spock.

"Oh!" Chekov cried. "A Wulcan _thing!_" He threw up his hands. "I feel so enlightened now. _Thank_ you, Commander."

Nyota frowned in his direction, but Spock seemed not to take offense. He turned briskly back to Nyota. "You can assure Mr. Scott and the Captain that this message will not affect our mission to New Vulcan."

"But, Mr. Spock," said Chekov, "you don't even know vhat the mission _is_."

Spock raised an eyebrow. The swoon squad behind him looked ready to salivate over any gesture so endearing. "That is unimportant, Ensign," he said. "All this crew is required to do is to comply with the colony's instructions."

Chekov grumbled, "We knew _that_ two days ago."

"While I appreciate your zeal in seeking a fuller explanation, I assure you that no elucidation of mine can have any impact on our required actions."

"Yes, sir." Disappointed, Chekov returned to checking his readouts.

"So," Nyota asked Spock quietly, "what _is_ it?"

Spock met her gaze. "Nothing that need concern us." Then he looked away and barely murmured, "I hope."

Nyota had possibly the most gorgeous man in Starfleet standing within her reach. Why, then, did her stomach suddenly have the sickening feeling of freefall?


	21. Kirk schedules a meeting

Jim stayed on the surface long enough to make sure that Chief Han had everything under control for returning the _Galileo_ and Spock's sparse belongings to the _Enterprise_. When Han's party was safely aboard, he and Sulu moved to a clear spot outside the shuttlecraft.

Jim flipped open his communicator. "_Enterprise_, two to beam up."

The familiar hum and sparkle claimed him. In a moment he was standing in the same transporter room from which he had beamed down. This time, Mr. Scott stood alone behind the console.

Jim stepped forward, glancing around. "Where's Lumley?"

Mr. Scott appeared very busy with his settings. "She, ah, had some things to attend to."

Jim frowned. "Besides beaming up our search parties?"

"They're almost all aboard, sir. Only five teams left."

"Excellent. Where can I find Mr. Spock?"

Scotty seemed extraordinarily preoccupied. "He's on the bridge, sir."

"Already?" Jim gave Sulu a surprised look. "He doesn't waste any time, does he?"

"No, sir. I'm sure you'll find he's already hard at work."

"Fine. So I take it a lion wasn't about to eat him when we beamed him up earlier."

"That, I couldnae say. You'll have to ask Mr. Spock."

"Hmm. So he's still a secretive fellow, eh?" Jim looked at Sulu and shrugged. "Let's go find Mr. Spock."

Sulu grinned. "Yes, sir."

They left Scotty absorbed in his console, and stepped into the hall. The place was deserted. It was curious. Jim usually passed one or two people on his way to the turbolift, but today there was no one.

"Quiet shift," Jim remarked to Sulu, as he touched the call button for the turbolift.

"They're probably busy running scans of Emagious III," Sulu speculated.

"Probably."

The turbolift doors opened. Jim blinked.

It was packed. People were literally in full contact with each other, crammed together. Even more bizarre was the looks on the faces of the crewmembers sandwiched within. As soon as the doors opened and they recognized the captain, various expressions from guilt to terror played over their faces.

Jim stared. "What's going on?"

They looked back at him, petrified.

"Crewman," Jim asked the nearest person. "What is all this?"

The man looked exceedingly nervous. "Nothing, sir."

"Nothing?" Jim gestured. "I see 27 people packed into a turbolift designed to carry 12, and you're telling me that nothing is going on?"

"Most of us are off-shift," said a tiny voice from somewhere in the middle.

"What about the rest of you?" Jim demanded.

Silence.

He suppressed a sigh. "All right, everyone who's on duty, get back to duty. The rest of you can tell me what you're up to."

The crewman Jim had questioned lowered his gaze, then sidled past Jim and Sulu. He was followed by another, and another. In a matter of moments, the turbolift was empty, with all twenty-something people walking silently down the hall.

Jim, astounded, watched them go. "I think," he murmured to Sulu, "that is the strangest thing I have ever seen aboard a starship."

Sulu looked equally mystified. "Was it a party, perhaps?"

"Before noon?"

Sulu merely shook his head.

Jim shrugged. "Well, as long as we have the turbolift to ourselves, let's go to the bridge."

With both Uhura and Spock on the bridge, Jim was assured that at least _that_ part of the ship would be functioning in its normal manner. Yet, when the turbolift doors parted, he saw that he'd been wrong. At least five times the amount of personnel who should have been on the bridge _were_ on the bridge. They were scattered everywhere, but clustered primarily around the viewscreen and forward consoles. Every one of them was looking toward the rear of the bridge. Befuddled, Jim stepped forward to see what everybody was staring at.

He stopped cold, Sulu one step behind him. He'd been mistaken; the overfilled turbolift was no longer the strangest thing he'd ever seen aboard a starship. The strangest thing had to be the sight of his repressed First Officer, standing thoughtfully next to his communications officer, pondering some sort of problem, in his underwear.

"Nothing, you _hope_," Chekov said over his shoulder from his console. "So you're saying it _might_ affect us, after all."

"The possibility for interference is extremely limited," Spock replied.

Jim couldn't decide what was stranger: Spock standing there in his underwear, calmly answering questions, or everybody else pretending that it was perfectly normal for Spock to be standing mostly naked on a crowded bridge calmly answering questions... in his underwear. Jim felt that, whatever was going on, it had already far passed the point of being contained by him. All he could do now was damage control.

He stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Ah, Spock?"

Heads turned his direction. As on the turbolift, most of the crewmembers in the room jumped, fear and guilt sweeping over their features.

The only one who didn't seem affected was Spock. He began walking toward Jim composedly, looking far more relaxed—and far more buff—than Jim had ever seen him. His longish hair and state of undress lent him a primitive flavor. He moved with the easy grace of a jungle cat, muscles playing beneath his skin.

"I apologize for my attire, Captain." His voice hadn't changed, except perhaps for being deeper and richer in tone. "Mr. Scott insisted that I was needed immediately on the bridge, and hadn't time to change into my uniform."

Jim thought back to Mr. Scott's peculiar behavior in the transporter room. It seemed there was more than one guilty conscience floating around. Jim meant to get to the bottom of it—but not just at this moment.

Deliberately not looking at any person in particular, he folded his arms across his chest and said, in a mild voice laden with threat, "I'm sure most of you people have business elsewhere."

It was the turbolift incident in reverse. First one, then another crewman headed either for the turbolift or the hall entrance on the opposite side. They actually had to crowd together for a moment to get everyone through the doors. Within half a minute, the bridge was reduced to its normal operating complement.

Jim drew a breath. Collecting himself, he approached his First Officer. Sulu took his usual place at the helm; Jim wasn't sure, but he thought he heard him suppressing a chuckle.

"Well, Mr. Spock," Jim said, stopping a few feet in front of the Vulcan. "We're glad to have you aboard."

"Thank you, Captain."

"It seemed you were having a little trouble down there."

Spock frowned. "Trouble, Captain?"

"On the surface." Jim forced himself not to look at Spock's underwear. "Something surprised you, perhaps... while you were bathing?"

Spock's eyes widened slightly. "Why should you suppose so?"

"Well, you know." He gestured vaguely at the colorful cloth. "You're not dressed."

Uhura, at her station, turned abruptly away, covering a laugh.

But Spock's equanimity was restored. "I see. This is not a bathing costume, Captain. It is a _sahr-fek_. It is designed for running long distances."

"Oh." Well, a jogging suit was better than underwear. "And what were you running _from_?"

"Nothing. I was just running."

Jim was doubtful. "You were _never_ in any danger down there."

Spock hesitated. "I experienced no incidents worth reporting."

That was Spock Speak for, "Yes, I lived through many dangerous incidents on Emagious III, but if I told you what they were, you'd probably panic in your predictable human way, and you'd never let me go anywhere again—so you will never hear Word One about it from me. Sir."

Jim frowned. "The scanners showed animal forms closing in..."

Spock nodded. "The _pa'ash-limuk_. But I was not running _from_ them, Captain; merely _with_ them."

"The 'flat-faces'?" Uhura giggled from her post. "Why do you call them that?"

Uhura seemed unusually giggly this morning. Then again, if Jim were a woman and he had a boyfriend who showed up looking like Spock, he supposed he'd be giggly, too.

Spock turned to address Uhura's question—showing Jim a far more generous view of Spock's backside than he had ever had any interest in seeing. "The _pa'ash-limuk_," Spock said didactically, as if he were teaching a class (in his underwear, Jim couldn't help thinking), "have a flattened oral disk anteriorly located on the lower part of the head. A radula-like organ or 'rasp tongue,' similar to that found in mollusks on Earth, allows them to attain nourishment by—"

"Yes, Spock, that's extremely interesting," Jim interrupted. "I'd like a full briefing about your discoveries on Emagious III at some point but—" Spock's position had enabled Jim to notice the waist pack that Spock was wearing; it seemed filled to the breaking point. "That pack looks uncomfortable." Spock's distance from the _Galileo_ returned to Jim's mind. "Do you mean to tell me that you were running _long-distance_, across the plains, with only that much gear?"

"No, Captain," he said, turning back around, to Jim's relief. "This is the gear I brought with me on my journey through the mountains."

Jim nodded at the belt pack. "Just that."

"Yes."

"Can you fit a parka in there?"

"No. But I carried a jacket and long pants, which served the same purpose."

"You explored an alien mountain range wearing nothing but a jacket?"

"Negative. The weather was extremely mild. I found the _sahr-fek_ quite sufficient for most of my explorations."

Jim felt his eyes widening. "Weren't you cold?"

"Not during the day."

"But there's ice and snow in the mountains, isn't there?"

"I wore gloves."

"Of course. Gloves." Jim felt lightheaded. "If you're wearing gloves, what else do you need?"

"Very little." Spock unhooked the pack and took it up in one hand, looking at it thoughtfully. Great; now he was wearing even less. Those straps on the _sahr-fek_ looked mighty thin as they curled around his hips. "Actually, my gear comprises less than 22% of the pack's current contents."

"What else have you got in there? Food?"

"No, rocks."

Jim got that lightheaded feeling again. "Rocks?"

"Yes. I was carrying specimens back to the shuttlecraft for further analysis."

"Rocks."

"Mineral specimens from various locations in—"

"You were on a heavy-gravity planet collecting _rocks_?"

"I intended to analyze—"

"You were going to run 271 kilometers across the prairie in a bathing suit carrying a bunch of _rocks_?"

Spock looked slightly offended. "The _sahr-fek_ is a traditional garment, Captain." He touched the front panel. "These markings are the symbols of my House."

Jim was _not_ going to look at Spock's groin, symbols of his Vulcan House or no. He felt an almost overpowering desire to shield his eyes. It didn't help that he could see Uhura's shoulders shaking as she crouched in her chair behind Spock, or hear the snickers of Chekov and Sulu at their consoles behind him. He tried to find some neutral piece of floor to look at.

"Well, Spock, that's all very fascinating, but I'm sure you want to get cleaned up and dressed now."

"A change of attire would be most welcome, Captain."

_You're telling me_. "All right. You've been away a long time, so why don't we have Lieutenant Uhura escort you to your quarters? I have no doubt she'll be able to fill you in on all the exciting adventures we had while you were away."

Uhura's eyes grew dark and her lips parted slightly as her gaze locked on Spock. Jim had to look away, before her reaction communicated itself to him.

Jim rubbed his hands briskly, mostly as a distraction for his thoughts—which "salacious" was not _nearly_ strong enough to cover. "Okay, you'll need some time to do everything. That is, to hear everything. Why don't we reconvene in—" Jim glanced at the chronometer and smiled. "91 minutes. Briefing Room Two. You can tell us all about your adventures on Emagious III."

"Thank you, Captain."

_You should_, Jim thought. "Lieutenant Uhura? Let's not keep Mr. Spock waiting."

She was out of her chair as if she had been catapulted. She gently tucked her arm under one of Spock's, gazing earnestly into his face. Jim could practically feel her raw need seeping through the air. He had to get them out of here before his hormones exploded.

Spock started moving again. Damn, he really did ripple when he walked, didn't he? That was... impressive.

Jim couldn't help saying, as Spock passed, "So, this is what you look like when you're in shape, huh?"

"No, sir."

Jim blanched. It got _worse_? Or better, or...

Spock extended his free arm clinically. "Normally my musculature is smoother in character and more lean. Apparently the gravity on Emagious III was heavy enough to encourage the formation of a denser muscle mass than is customary for me. I do not expect the condition to linger in these lighter-gravity conditions."

Dense was right. Spock's chest looked like an advertisement for the Greek God Home Assembly Kit. "Well, it looks good on you. Seriously."

"Looks are irrelevant; it is functionality that is key. But thank you for sharing that observation, Captain."

Hmm, the look on Uhura's face told Jim that Spock's functionality was about to get a full workout. The lucky bastard.

As he and Uhura started once more for the door, Jim couldn't help giving him one more little dig. "Try not to let yourself get so out of shape in the future, will you, Mr. Spock?"

Spock halted. That oh-so-superior eyebrow crawled toward the uncharacteristically scraggly dark fringe. "Captain, I fail to see how I am to maintain a level of fitness that required an average of 17.4 hours of running per day to achieve, with an additional 2.6 hours of—"

Jim started. "You ran 17.4 hours per day?"

Spock's stare could refrigerate medical supplies. "Yes."

"Well..." Jim shrugged. "Do the best you can."

"That is always my intention, Captain."

Jim waved a hand. "Dismissed."

Uhura nestled against Spock's side, murmuring something up at him as she guided him toward the turbolift. Spock in turn inclined his ear toward her—probably just for the closeness, as Jim was certain he would have no difficulty hearing her.

_There they go_, Jim thought, as they stepped into the turbolift. _Two absolutely gorgeous people in their prime about to have 90 minutes of passionate, athletic sex_.

Watching them go, Jim bit his lip—because it would have been unmanly to whimper.


	22. Chekov is annoyed

The turbolift doors closed behind the reunited lovers. For a moment all was silent on the bridge.

Then Ensign Lo murmured, with enthusiasm, "Hot _damn!_"

Jim frowned in her direction. "Ensign, you are speaking of a superior officer."

Lo shook her head. "Captain, honey, don't I _know_ it!"

Titters sounded from around the bridge. Jim lost his patience. "I understand that we've had an unusual morning, but please—can we leave off the blatant insubordination and try to get our minds back on our jobs?"

Lo look chastened. "Sorry, sir."

"Fine." Still irritated, he turned toward Chekov. "I'm curious. What were you discussing with Mr. Spock when I first came on the bridge?"

Chekov punched a few buttons, probably trying to demonstrate that _he_, at least, was attending to his duties. "It concerned the message from New Wulcan, sir."

"New Vulcan?" The memory clicked. "Oh, yeah. What did Spock say about that, um..."

"_Kashek-shoret wak_," Mallory supplied.

Jim waved a hand in her direction. "Yeah, that. What is it?"

Chekov gloomily adjusted a setting. "It is a thing."

"A what?"

"A thing," said Mallory.

"What _kind_ of thing?" asked Jim.

Chekov looked irritated. "A _Wulcan_ thing."

Jim looked around the room. Mallory shrugged, Lo looked amused, and Chekov was plainly annoyed. "I see." _Good old Spock_, he thought. He might be freakishly relaxed, but he was just as communicative as ever.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you got him to tell us all about it."

"That is just it!" Chekov complained, literal as ever. "He didn't say _anything_. Just that it may or may not affect our mission."

"He said that it probably wouldn't," Lo corrected.

"Well, we'll tackle him about it later. But for now—" Jim clapped his hands, trying to lighten the mood. "Ensign Mallory. The_ Galileo_ will need another 20 minutes or so to rendezvous with us. How would you like to lead a science team down to the surface for a quick on-site survey?"

Mallory's eyes lit up. "Can I?"

"You've earned it, Ensign. I wouldn't want to send you back to the _Lao-Tse_ with only star mapping and smuggler tracking to add to your record."

Mallory grinned. "Thank you, sir."

"Still, our time is limited, so we'd better move fast. Mr. Flynn." Jim turned toward Uhura's relief. "Get me someone from Geology and Life Sciences. Who was that botanist?"

"Biologist Mubarak," Flynn answered.

"Right. Get her and..." He snapped his fingers. "The older guy. Fleming. Do we still have a security team on-site?"

"No, sir. We just beamed the last one up to Transporter Room Three."

"Well, beam them back down." He turned toward Mallory encouragingly. "I don't expect you'll run into anything; the area's been pretty thoroughly searched. Still, it never hurts to have a couple extra pairs of eyes around."

Mallory's eyes sparkled. "I appreciate that, sir. Once I get absorbed in something, I don't have attention for anything else."

"Yes. I noticed that about you." He gave her a smile, which she returned.

Jim felt good inside. Doing something nice for Mallory after all her hard work was the least he could do, especially after her reputed heartthrob walked out the door with another lady to engage in round after round of hot animal sex. _No, don't go there!_

Flynn turned toward Jim with furrowed brows. "Captain, I can't raise anyone in Life Sciences."

Jim blinked. "That's strange. How about Geology?"

Flynn pushed a few buttons, and then shook his head. "No response from Fleming, or anyone else."

"Where is everybody?" Jim wondered aloud. They couldn't _all_ be riding around in overfilled turbolifts—could they?

"Scanning," said Sulu. His eyebrows went up in surprise. "Well, I don't know about Fleming and Mubarak, but there's a huge crowd on deck five."

"Deck _five_?" It took only a moment for Jim to puzzle it out. His good mood evaporated. "The officers' quarters."

Sulu tried to hide his amusement. He did it better than Lo. "Yes, Captain."

"Spock," he growled.

Sulu gave Jim a good-natured shrug. "I guess they wanted to see him walk back to his cabin."

"This is ridiculous!" Jim marched over to Sulu's console. "I mean, nothing remotely like this ever happened to me on my best possible day!"

"It's the ears," Chekov grumbled.

"It's more than the ears," countered Lo.

"I don't want to talk about his ears or any other part of him!" Jim paced a couple of times behind Sulu in pure exasperation. "How the devil did they know he was headed down there, anyway?"

"He was bound to go back to his quarters sometime, Captain," Sulu pointed out.

Jim scowled. "How many people are down there?"

Chekov adjusted a setting, then his eyes went wide. He coughed. "I count...one hundred fifty-three."

"_153!_" Jim stared. "That's a third of the crew."

Sulu did a fine job of holding in his laughter. "At least we now know we can evacuate everyone onto only three decks if we have to."

Jim glared at him a moment, then marched over to his command chair. He hit the ship-wide intercom with an unnecessary amount of force.

"All hands, this is the Captain. We will be in orbit around Emagious III for approximately another 30 minutes. I want detailed scans of the planet's surface from all departments, with a report of your findings to be delivered by each section to me in," he made up a time, "72 minutes. Geologist Fleming and Biologist Mubarak, report to Transporter Room One for landing party detail. All other on-duty personnel, report to your stations to assist with the scanning effort. Immediately, people. Kirk out."

He snapped off the intercom, disproportionately annoyed.

"Crowd... beginning to disperse," Chekov reported.

"You can't really blame them, Captain," said Sulu. "Not many people have seen a mostly naked Vulcan before."

"I know, but—" He gave Sulu an appalled look. "It's _Spock_."

Sulu shrugged. "Spock's not so bad."

"No." Kirk subsided gloomily. "He isn't."

Shaking off his mood, he turned toward Mallory. "Well, Ensign. Time is flying. Shall we go?"

Mallory hurried toward him from her station. "Are you coming too, sir?"

"We'll get you a field tricorder, then I'll walk you as far as the transporter room."

Mallory's unaffected smile was a breath of fresh air—as well as a boost to his bruised ego. "Thank you, sir."

Jim was relieved when they exited the turbolift near the transporter room to see the normal number of personnel walking about the corridors. True, they were smirking more than usual—until they noticed him, when they suddenly became absorbed in the floor or the opposite wall so they wouldn't have to meet his eye—but that was fine. At least superficially, the _Enterprise_ was restored to some level of sanity.

When the doors to the transporter room opened, Jim could see his landing party was already assembled. Fleming, the dignified geologist, and Scotty rested from opposite sides against the transporter console, their attention focused on Biologist Mubarak, a short, animated woman with heavily outlined eyes and swathes of dark, luxurious hair elaborately done up in a coiffure.

"... and he didn't even _touch_ the rails," Mubarak was saying excitedly, while Fleming smiled indulgently at her side. "He just, _bloop!_ Straight up the access tunnel in a single leap—"

She stopped when Jim and Mallory's movement into the room caught her eye. She and Fleming quickly bent to check their instruments.

Scotty immediately got busy with his controls. "Just a few more settings, sir."

Jim felt his teeth clenching. "Thank you, Mr. Scott."

All of this byplay seemed to pass over Mallory's head. "Is there any particular area you want to concentrate on, sir?" she asked.

"I'll let you use your scientific judgment, Ensign." Jim turned toward the rest of the landing party. "You've only got about 20 minutes. I don't expect a detailed report; just feel free to make whatever observations you can in the time allowed."

"Yes, sir," replied Fleming and Mubarak together.

Mallory practically bounced onto the transporter pad, the other officers joining her more sedately. Jim walked casually toward the transporter console and leaned against it with an elbow.

"All set?" he asked the survey team.

Mallory nodded eagerly.

Jim said to Scotty, "Energize."

The team disappeared in the glow. Jim lazily turned around so he was still leaning against the transporter console, but facing Scotty.

Scotty was all business. "Materialization complete." He checked the settings. "Everything's in order."

"Good," Jim murmured.

Scotty began in an elaborate series of double-checks that was by no means part of a routine transport operation. "I'll keep a watchful eye on them, sir."

"Uh huh."

There was a spot of color in each of Scotty's cheeks as he maniacally checked settings. He was almost certainly avoiding Jim's eye.

Jim sighed. "Scotty, why did you do it?"

Scotty froze. Then he resumed his routine. "Er, do... something, Captain?"

Jim dropped his pretense. "You told Spock that he had to report to the bridge immediately upon beam-up. You told him he had to get there so promptly that he didn't even have time to change into his uniform. Now, would you mind explaining to me why you deliberately lied to a superior officer?"

Scotty pressed a few more buttons, then looked up. To Jim's surprise, Scotty's expression was full of irritated impatience. "Captain, cannae ye gi' me credit for having any intelligence at all?"

Jim was thrown. "Excuse me?"

"Ye couldnae expect me to beam up—" He waved his hand frustratedly at the transporter pad. "_That!_ Mr. Spock looking the way he did, wearing that _tiny_ little Vulcan thing, and keep it to _myself_, could ye? How could I in good conscience _waste_ such a once-in-a-career morale-building opportunity as _that?_"

Jim worked to overcome his shock. "Morale-building?"

"Good grief, man, how did ye end up as a starship captain, if ye have no common sense?"

Jim began to get angry. "Scotty, the point is—"

"He was beautiful. _Beautiful!_ Wearing that skimpy little outfit o' his. I tell ye, Technician Lumley and Nurse Chapel had their morale boosted so hard they couldnae speak a word for a full five minutes, as I was in a position to know."

"So you sent him into the hall."

"Aye!" Scotty said fiercely. "Sent him down to the access tunnel at the main junction, too. That way, more people could get a look at him."

Despite himself, Jim was becoming fascinated by Scott's reasoning. "What people were these?"

Scotty scratched his head. "Well, now, that would be nearly everyone from Engineering—Lumley got out the word to them right away, before Mr. Spock even left the chamber. And then one person after another began to pass it along, or so I figure, until the halls were full of people."

Jim felt himself reeling. No wonder the turbolift had been packed, and deck five so crowded. Everyone was sending everybody else a Red Alert about Spock marching around in a Vulcan bathing suit. He supposed the excessive interest was due to the novelty as much as anything else.

He struggled to form a coherent question. "Didn't Spock... _notice_ all the unusual activity?"

"I'm sure he did. But he'll most likely put it down to the turbolift malfunction."

Jim frowned. "What turbolift malfunction?"

"Well... there wasn't one. But I made a point to tell him there was so he'd be sure to take the access tunnel."

Jim shook his head in disbelief. "Scotty, that's... that's..."

"Brilliant, I know. But you know what they say: a horny ship is a happy ship!"

Jim started to laugh despite himself. "No one says that."

"Well, sir, ye have me there. Actually, it's not the horniness, it's the glorious aftermath that brings about the joy. And believe me, there's going to be _plenty_ of aftermath in the wake of Mr. Spock's little walk today. In fact, I wouldnae be surprised if everyone who's off-duty and conscious is engaging in a little bit o' aftermath right now—given such inspirational material."

Scotty had a point. Actually, Jim knew two people who were almost certainly engaged in some serious aftermath at this very moment. He shook his head hard to dislodge the image.

Scotty lowered his voice, looking smug. "Between you and me, I'm, ah... counting on a little aftermath myself."

Jim pulled his thoughts back to the present. "Lumley?"

Scotty examined his nails. "I think she's nicely primed. She's agreed to have dinner with me after our shift—dinner in my quarters. I'm sure a good time will be had by all—and I don't really care whose name she cries out at a moment of passion, if ye know what I mean."

Jim scrubbed his face. "Scotty, you are evil. _Evil!_"

"Nae, I couldnae agree. Practical. Cunning, if you like. But surely not evil. Ooh, ooh!" Scotty was practically jumping with excitement. "I know what we can do."

Jim stared helplessly. "What?"

"We can make this an annual event—like the running of the bulls in... eh..."

"Pamplona," Jim supplied.

"Right. We'll get Spock to wear his little outfit, and we'll put him on deck 30. We'll tell him it's a... health thing. Like, to keep him in shape. So we start him out in the satellite bay, and tell him he has to run through every deck on the ship—"

"Scotty..."

"—until he gets to the bridge. We can set it up like a course. And people can be cheering him on all along the way—"

"Mr. Scott..."

"—until the race ends and we get to the aftermath bit again." Scotty bounced on his toes. "Ah, Captain, ye'd have the happiest crew in the fleet! Just give the word, sir, and I'll take care of everything." Scotty paused to reflect. "Actually, I think we should make this a monthly event. Once a year isn't near often enough."

All this talk of "glorious aftermaths" was really getting to Jim's... head. He thought of how lonely it could be in space, how few were the opportunities for simple, carefree fun. He couldn't help thinking about all those women who were... primed, as Scotty put it, and desperate for a good dose of comfort. Nelson in Engineering had a soft spot for Spock, Jim suddenly remembered. Perhaps _she_ hadn't yet made dinner plans with anyone...

Jim shook himself. _He was as deranged as his crew!_ He would _not_ be drawn into this madness. Besides, could he seriously bring himself to act as a sub for Spock? Had he fallen that low?

Taking his emotions firmly in hand, Jim again attempted to regain control of the situation. "Scotty, there is only one relevant issue here. You deliberately tricked a fellow officer—actually, grade makes no matter—a fellow member of the _crew_, into parading through the halls in a state of semi-dress, to be ogled at by all and sundry. That's just... wrong."

Scotty waved a hand. "Ach, he's Vulcan! All the ogling in the world won't make the slightest impact on him."

"That's not the point."

"That's _entirely_ the point! I'm telling ye, Captain, the real reason for all the interest would never cross his mind in a million years! He'll see the crowds as related to the turbolift problem. Mark my words: at the next department meeting, he'll ask me to look into a more efficient routing of personnel when the turbolifts are down. I'll wager ye a 12-year-old bottle of Scotch on _that!_"

Jim frowned. "The crowds on the bridge and deck five can't be explained by the turbolift problem."

"He'll assume they were just... coming to say hello."

"_What?_"

"No, really. Fleming and Mubarak were telling me about it just before you arrived."

"Deck five?"

"Yes, sir. They'd all lined up outside of the turbolift closest to Mr. Spock's quarters. When the door opened, they burst into polite applause—those that had control of their reflexes, that is."

Jim was riveted. "What did Spock do?"

"Just gave them the leery once over, like he couldn't believe the illogical waste of all this manpower on something as frivolous as a welcome-home greeting." He paused. "I think Fleming said he did spare a nod here and there."

"And Nyota?"

"Ah!" Scotty's gaze softened. "She was like a queen, gliding along beside him and shooting daggers from her eyes at whoever she thought was staring too intently. Ah, Captain, I wish I could've seen it!" He came back to himself. "And then your message came across and everyone had to leave."

Scotty didn't say it, but Jim was certain he was being cast in the role of Official Wet Blanket over the entire View Nearly Naked Spock Operation.

Jim tried to gather his thoughts. "Scotty, the fact remains that people are objectifying and taking advantage of the _Enterprise_'s second-in-command."

Scotty raised his brows. "No one will be taking advantage of Mr. Spock except Uhura—not if they want to keep themselves in one piece." At Jim's glare, he carried on, his eyes begging for understanding. "Honestly, Captain, what's the harm in a little peep? Spock doesn't notice, and everyone else... _does!_ It's a win-win. Morale is boosted and blood pressure lowered through the healthy release of exercise. It's the bonniest solution to space fatigue I ever saw."

Worn down at last, Jim sagged against the console. "Are you taking up Vulcan philosophy now, Scotty? 'There is no offense given where none is taken'?"

Scotty pondered a moment. "Aye."

Jim sighed. "All right. Keep an eye on our landing party while I... think about what to do about this." He started walking toward the door.

Scotty looked after him anxiously. "No reprimand?" Doubtless he was thinking about ice planets. He needn't worry; Jim would never send a person to an ice planet in his entire career, if he could help it.

Jim answered honestly, "I'm not sure where I would start or stop. You sent Spock to the bridge, but Lumley was the one who called out the crowds, before they began calling each other—" He glanced around. "Shouldn't she be back here? I like to have a backup at the transporter console."

"I'll get her here right away."

Jim smiled. "I'm sure you will."

He continued toward the door, but the silence puzzled him. He turned around to see Scotty watching him. Clearly, he was waiting for Jim to leave. Jim turned around and stood still. _Now_ what was the Scotsman up to?

Realizing that Jim was going to stand here until he made the call, Scotty reluctantly pushed the comm button. "Security," came the prompt reply.

Scotty cleared his throat. "Is, ah... Technician Lumley there?"

"She just left, Commander."

"Ah." Scotty, trying to sound casual, failed miserably. "So she's on her way back to the transporter room."

"Yes, sir," said the man on duty. Before Scotty could even complete his reassuring nod at Jim, the voice continued, "She said she was going to drop the tapes off at your quarters on her way."

In two steps, Jim was at the transporter console pushing the comm link. "This is the Captain. What tapes are these?"

"Captain?" The man sounded alarmed. "I didn't realize you were in the room, sir."

"Never mind that. What tapes are these?"

The man hesitated. "They're just... records of recent activity, Captain."

"What recent activity?"

"We were studying... overcrowding in the corridors."

"Over—" He gave Scotty a glare that should have melted him like a dropped scoop of ice cream on a hot day. "These tapes wouldn't, by any chance, happen to have images of _Mr. Spock_ on them, would they?"

Now the man sounded _really_ nervous. "I... believe they did, sir."

Scotty gave him a pleading look that would have made a puppy cry, but Jim's heart was flint. "Chief—and I'm using that rank for the moment—there is to be _no_ unauthorized distribution of Security tapes to anyone—_anyone_—without my prior direct order. Any tapes that _were_ distributed had better be back in your custody in the next 10 minutes, or you'll spend the rest of your tour of duty washing the bumpers on the shuttlecraft. Do I make myself clear, Chief?"

"Very clear, sir. I'll get the tapes back right away!"

Jim broke the connection, and then glared at Scotty. The engineer shifted from foot to foot, knowing that he'd been busted.

When Jim finally spoke, his voice was like honey dropping into a vat of acid. "Tapes, Mr. Scott?"

At least Scotty had the good grace to look thoroughly ashamed. "Lumley thought we might use them as, uh, _inspiration_ for this evening..."

Jim took a moment to control his anger. "The _only_ reason I'm not throwing you, Lumley, the security chief, and anyone else I can think of into the brig is because it's clear the entire _Enterprise_ has gone crazy. I can only hope that everyone regains their sanity once Spock puts his clothes back on. But your creativity ends here, Mr. Scott. This is the last infraction. I will not have my First Officer used as 'inspirational material' by _anyone_. If you want to seduce Lumley, that's your business—but you're going to have to do it based on your own merits. Do you read me, Mr. Scott?"

"Yes, sir," Scotty said miserably.

Jim gave the transporter console a smack in his agitation. "All right." He again started toward the door.

Scotty asked hesitantly, "May I ask where you'll be?"

Jim turned. "In Security. Making sure every single tape showing Commander Spock's arrival is erased."

Scotty jumped forward. "You cannae do that! It's... it's... of historical importance."

"It is _not!_"

"It _is!_ It's official ship's records. Starfleet won't like it if you erase them."

Jim paused. Scotty did have a point about the official records.

Scotty came forward, doing that whipped-dog thing again with his eyes. "I know I was in the wrong, sir. I'm clear about that. I'll never do such a thing again. But please, don't destroy the records. I'll wager the time will come when you don't feel as strongly about it as you do at this moment. A year or so from now, we'll all be sitting around Dr. McCoy's office after some particularly grueling mission, having a drink and talking over old times. Chekov will be trying to grow his beard. Spock will have learned to smile. And then someone will bring up that time when he came aboard wearing nothing but his running trews, and we'll all get a good laugh out of it."

Jim softened. The picture Scotty painted was very appealing.

"And then," Scotty continued, "after another drink or two, we'll play those tapes of Spock that Security saved, and everyone will dive hot and heavy into the glorious aftermath."

Jim laughed. He couldn't help it; all the frustration and absurdity of the situation came home to him at once. He laughed until he hurt. Beyond him, Scotty smiled, confident that he'd once again carried the day.

Jim finally got the better of his mirth. For the last time, he started toward the door.

Scotty stepped forward. "So, ye'll keep the tapes?"

Jim paused on the threshold as the doors slid open. "Don't tell Uhura," he said, and stepped into the hall.


	23. McCoy helps

Ninety minutes after Jim announced his meeting, he and Bones stood outside the door of Briefing Room Two, idly watching other members of the crew walk by. Behind him, the crowded briefing room buzzed with excitement. It had filled early with members of the landing party and various other specialists who were intensely interested in life on Emagious III. Jim knew fully well that a good many of these observers were most keenly interested in the _vulcanoid_ life on Emagious III, but that fact no longer bothered him. Spock's pedantic manner would quickly put an end to the madness that had recently swept the _Enterprise_.

Or so he hoped.

"I will say this for Spock-itis," Bones muttered beside him. "It certainly had a positive impact on morale."

Jim looked around at the smiling faces. Many of the crewmen exchanged knowing looks with him as they passed; most of the women seemed contentedly lost in their own little world. A few of these managed to squeeze into the already packed briefing room; Jim doubted most of them even realized he was there.

"As they say," Jim responded quietly, watching yet another dreamily absorbed crewmember drift by, "a horny ship is a happy ship."

Bones smothered his laugh. "Where did you hear that?"

"Scotty."

Bones looked around. "Where _is_ Mr. Scott?"

"I think he's preparing for his date with Lumley."

"Well!" Bones eyebrows rose. "Will wonders never cease?"

"You're telling me. When I got up this morning, I had no idea the entire crew would be intimately familiar with the sight of Mr. Spock's buttocks before noon."

Bones leaned contentedly against the door frame. "Jim, when you're in my line of work, you've seen so many bottoms that it takes a hell of a lot for one to make an impact." He watched as another absently smiling crewman walked by. "_Other_ people, on the other hand..."

Jim nudged Bones' elbow. "Here they come."

Bones checked his chronometer. "Hmm. 91 minutes exactly. Bravo, Mr. Spock."

Jim shook his head, grinning as he watched a couple approach. "I'm sure it must be only 90 minutes, 45 seconds, Bones. Spock must have timed it so it would be 91.00 the instant he hit the door."

"I'll bow to your expertise, Jim."

Nyota and Spock walked side-by-side—if "side-by-side" meant two people joined from hip to shoulder so that not a glimmer of space showed between them. Spock's upright posture was uncharacteristically relaxed, his mouth almost smiling as he tipped his head toward Nyota. His hands were clasped behind his back as usual, but Nyota had her arm firmly about his waist to pull him toward her as she playfully murmured some intimacy into his ear. Jim was surprised that Spock permitted such a display of public affection. Then again, if he were Spock, he'd be too relaxed to even stand. The lucky bastard.

The couple drifted within speaking distance. Spock inclined his head. "Captain."

"Mr. Spock. Are you ready for us?"

"Nearly, Captain. I require only a moment or two to prepare."

"Let me help you," Bones instantly volunteered. He looked as if he were trying very hard to hold in his laughter. Looking past him, Jim understood why. The excited buzz of conversation in the briefing room had ceased, and everyone within was now staring with glistening eyes toward the open door.

Spock looked mildly into the packed room, but neither the excessive crowd nor the many rapt faces seemed to make any impact on him. Good grief, he was _criminally_ relaxed. "It is a simple operation to activate the viewer, Doctor," Spock drawled, with half-closed lids.

"No, now, I insist. You just got back from vacation. You shouldn't have to go to all that bother right now."

Jim knew that Bones was eager to get inside simply so he could laugh at the reaction of his fellow crewmates. Far be it from Jim to deny Bones his pleasure.

"Go ahead, you two," he interjected. "We'll be there in a moment."

Nyota reluctantly released her _grip_—there was no other word for it—on Mr. Spock. Through the open door, Jim caught a glimpse of Mallory biting her lip. Hmm, maybe there had been something more than hero worship to her fascination with Mr. Spock after all. She certainly hid it well—far better than Mubarak, whose eyes were fastened on Spock with the intensity of a hunting tiger.

Bones and Spock started inside—and were greeted with applause from the assembled group. Spock merely nodded acknowledgment, proceeding calmly toward the viewer. Jim imagined every woman he passed was mentally stripping him with her eyes, recalling what lay beneath. Bones followed the commander with a smile, surveying the fervent faces and obviously delighting in the absurdity of human nature.

Jim would have caught Nyota's arm before she walked through the door, but she stopped on her own, leaning against the wall so they could have a private conversation. Her warm, dark eyes glowed with contentment.

"Thank you for that, Captain."

Her voice was a full octave lower than its usual register. _Damn, that must have been some terrific aftermath!_ Jim's grin spread. "My pleasure. Besides, I knew you wouldn't be worth a damn thing until you'd taken the edge off."

Nyota's smile widened. Good grief, he could _feel_ the pheromones pouring off her, like a freaking waterfall. He'd better give her the rest of the shift off, and lock Spock up with her. Otherwise, the entire crew would be aftermathing left, right, and center where ever the pair walked by.

"I'm not sure I'm good for much of anything right _now_," she murmured in her new, sultry voice.

Jim felt torn between a smile and a whimper. "Good for anything _else_, you mean."

She chuckled throatily. "That's right."

_Damn_, Jim had better find out if Engineer Nelson was still available for this evening. It was becoming imperative that he do something about his sexual fantasies. Maybe it was that hormone cocktail Uhura was breathing all over him; he didn't know. But he was going to embarrass himself if he didn't rein in his reactions soon.

Jim nodded into the room. "You realize he's going to be insufferable after all this. I mean, more insufferable than he was before."

Nyota shook her head. "It won't affect him."

Inside the room, Bones was "helping" Spock set up the viewer—and bulloxing the operation in the process. Jim suspected that Bones did it just so he could have an excuse to stage a quarrel with Spock. Judging from the laughter, it seemed the meeting room participants were enjoying the resulting antics.

Jim lowered his voice. "Nyota, Spock has got to know that every woman in there is deep in fantasy-induced salivation."

"He _doesn't_ know that. I don't think he'd care if he _did_ know that."

"Say again?"

Nyota smiled indulgently. "Spock can be vain about many things—his intelligence, his heritage—"

"His abs," Jim interjected.

"No. Looks don't come into it. Like other Vulcans, Spock accepts that a person's physical appearance is simply how they look. He evaluates it along with everything else to assess their abilities and threat potential. And that's it."

"You're telling me," Jim challenged, "that Spock managed to secure possibly _the_ most drop-dead gorgeous woman in all of Starfleet—and he doesn't care about your _looks_?"

Nyota mused, "I don't think he _minds_ the way I look—"

Jim snorted.

"—but it wasn't an important consideration with him. It _wasn't_." She looked into the room. Bones was now trying to "fine tune" the image, which seemed to be a _pa'ash-limuk_ that was at the moment projecting over Bones' uniform as he fiddled with the controls, and over Spock's as he gravely tried to correct the doctor's adjustments. The resulting show had the meeting attendees in stitches. Nyota, observing it, smiled softly.

Jim took a moment to think. For the first time, he could see the appeal of someone like Spock for Nyota. Such a beautiful woman as her must have had men chasing her for her looks all her life. Meeting a man who appreciated her purely for her mind and personality must have been a breath of fresh air.

Well, their relationship was what it was, and none of his damn business. Turning his mind to other issues, Jim murmured, "What did he have to say about the Vulcan artifacts smuggling ring?"

Nyota went still, then blushed slightly. "Um, I didn't quite get to that."

Jim grinned. As it was the only event of importance that had occurred during the entire time Spock had been away, he was forced to conclude that the only updates she'd given Spock during their absence had been of a purely physical nature. He was sure _that_ area had been thoroughly covered.

Jim relaxed against the door frame. "It's just as well. There's no sense in ruining his first few hours aboard with sad thoughts of his home planet."

Some tension went out of Nyota's frame. "Thank you, Captain."

"Still," he said casually, "you were pretty slack in your duties. I only asked you to accomplish one thing during your break, and you managed to screw it up."

Nyota smiled. "You were right in thinking that I wouldn't be good for anything."

"Yeah. So, why don't you knock off for the day? After the briefing, I mean. That will give you plenty of time to let Spock know about all the things he's been missing."

Her smile would make a lame man walk. "Thank you, Captain. I'd like that very much."

"No prob—Whoops! Looks like Bones and Spock have finally worked it out."

The _pa'ash-limuk_ was now displaying properly in holographic form over the center of the table. After chasing McCoy from the controls, Spock had clasped his hands behind his back and stood at (extremely relaxed) attention.

"Go!" Jim whispered, guiding Nyota into the room before him.

Mallory, the good sport that she was, had saved her fellow officer a chair. Nyota slipped into it, her attention already captured by Spock. A serene smile played over her face. Jim wondered if she noticed the looks of pure envy that assaulted her from almost every angle of the room. He watched a moment; nope! Her focus was riveted. Either Nyota was one big pushover, or that Vulcan was better than Jim had thought. Will wonders never cease, indeed.

Jim took his place next to Bones, standing against the wall with numerous latecomers at the rear of the room.

"It's so nice to see everybody together again," Bones said in a low voice, smirking over the reactions going on between Nyota and everyone else around the table.

"Yes," Jim murmured. "I think we've got morale back up to a reasonably high level."

"We're going to need it if we're facing the Vulcans in a few days," Bones whispered, as Spock had started to speak.

Jim grunted. He didn't want to think about New Vulcan. The idea made him sad.

"So we can add that to our list of things to thank Spock-itis for," Bones continued, not observing Jim's mood.

Jim leaned closer. "You've got a list?"

"Oh, yeah. Right at the top is where Nelson in Engineering agreed to have dinner with me." Bones smiled lasciviously. "I'm looking forward to testing her reflexes."

Jim put a hand over his face. Sometimes he hated being the Captain.


	24. Uhura says farewell

It was Mallory's last day, and Nyota couldn't say she was sorry. While it was apparent that Mallory's _appreciation_ of Spock turned out to be entirely in line with most of the rest of the crew's (something that Nyota was still coming to terms with), it remained something of a trial to hear her enthuse all over Spock's workstation for the last couple of days, while he stood patiently behind and explained modification after modification that he had made to fine-tune spectral analysis, planetary analysis, etc. ad infinitum. Today, Nyota was ready to have Mallory out of the chair and Spock back in it, with no interruptions, for least a couple of days. With New Vulcan still a few days away, she at least stood a chance of getting her wish.

Mallory had said her goodbyes to Chekov, Sulu, and Lo on the bridge. Sulu was gracious as always, but Chekov seemed honestly sorry to say farewell.

"You _vill_ write," he said at least twice, with such a puppy-dog expression that Nyota knew, even if Mallory's heart were made of stone (which it wasn't), she would have to send the young ensign at least one personal missive after she resumed her original assignment. From Mallory's softened looks, Nyota suspected the letter would be a long one. Hooray for ongoing communication.

Lo's farewell was considerably briefer. Not that she minded Mallory really —who could?—but Nyota was then acting as Mallory's escort, and Lo was still trying to downplay her role in bringing her Engineering buddies up to the bridge to witness Spock's grand entrance. She shook Mallory's hand and seemed genuinely contrite in Nyota's presence—but Nyota couldn't help wondering what her fellow officer said when she went down to Engineering, and Lumley and the rest of the gang were free to speak as they chose. Nyota had actually had some pretty vivid fantasies about this—and about how she would take them apart if she ever caught them actually saying what she suspected they were saying. For the first time in her relationship with Spock, she felt people were more frightened to see _her_ come around the corner than the ship's self-contained First Officer—a fear factor Nyota intended to exploit for however long she could.

It was largely for that reason that Nyota had agreed to escort Mallory to the shuttlebay—just in case anyone started to get ideas about Spock, given that he was again on board. Now she stalked proprietarily behind the tall commander and his diminutive pupil, who was still chattering away about all the refinements she was going to make to her equipment aboard the _Lao-Tse_ once she got back there. Spock being Spock, he'd naturally spent half the previous night studying the _Lao-Tse_'s technical specifications, and had a good many suggestions to offer Mallory to help her accomplish her vision.

Without much to add, Nyota trailed behind the pair alongside Kirk, who had taken it upon himself to see his temporary officer off the ship. He proved to be a good companion—silent as Nyota was, but occasionally exchanging a sly smirk or a roll of the eyes with her at some particularly geeky comment made by the couple preceding them down the hall. It made the trip more bearable.

When Mallory burst into a passionate endorsement of new measurements down to the angstrom level, Nyota couldn't help murmuring to Kirk, "It kind of makes you want to redesign your own station, doesn't it?"

Kirk swallowed his chuckle.

Unfortunately, Nyota's sarcasm and a Vulcan's sense of humor were often a clean miss. Spock instantly turned to look at her. "I shall be more than pleased to make any modifications to your station that you find helpful, Lieutenant."

While the notion of Spock lying on his back under her panel for couple of days, tinkering away at her feet, was a distinctly appealing one, Nyota could think of no enhancements she could ask for him to make. "Thank you for the offer, Commander. But I need to give the matter some more thought."

Spock nodded and resumed his conversation with Mallory. Kirk gave Nyota a wicked grin that screamed _Busted!_ all over it. Where once she might have resented his familiarity, Nyota was growing more comfortable accepting his playfulness for what it was: just silly banter intended to reduce the tension. And he hadn't once tried to seduce Mallory once during her entire tour. Surely that showed a newfound maturity in Kirk's character; Nyota felt it suited him.

The doors parted to let them into the shuttlecraft bay. Mallory's craft, the _Zhang Heng_, stood ready, while technicians scurried about it prepping the bay. In front of the ordered confusion stood two beaming gentleman, with gifts nestled into the crooks of their arms.

"Dr. McCoy, Mr. Scott!" Mallory cried. "How nice of you to see me off."

"I figured I owed you that, considering the way I'd welcomed you aboard." Dr. McCoy stepped forward, holding out an insulated dish. "A snack lunch to tide you over on your way back."

"That's sweet," Mallory beamed, taking the gift.

McCoy tapped the dish. "That's genuine Georgia barbecue. Replicator fresh—but I've trained it to do a fairly close approximation, which isn't half bad, if I say so myself."

"I'm sure I'll enjoy it thoroughly. In any case, it's got to be better than ship's stores!"

"You can count on that!" McCoy grinned.

"Now, Maggie," said Mr. Scott, "you're going t' need something to wash that down with. And—" He gave the captain a knowing look. "I just happened to come into possession of something that ought to do the job admirably."

Mallory took the bottle wonderingly. "Scotch whiskey?" She eyed the dust on the bottle. "This looks really old."

"Eighteen years," Scotty said with pride.

Mallory looked startled. "Are you sure you want to part with it?"

Scotty waved a hand. "Ach, it's nothing! Besides, as I said, I only recently came to own it." He gave Captain Kirk a smirk. "A wee matter of a wager."

Nyota gave Kirk a sideways glance, to see him looking rather warm. She suddenly recalled his look of chagrin (and Scotty's look of triumph) at the department meeting yesterday, but she couldn't figure out what it was about. The only topic under discussion was something Spock had brought up—about how they needed to route personnel more efficiently through the ship in case of a turbolift malfunction. She couldn't imagine why Scotty and Kirk would have been betting over that—but she supposed stranger things had happened.

Scotty took Mallory's hand and shook it warmly. "Have a bonny trip back, lass," he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

"Safe journey," said McCoy, and gave her a peck on the other one.

Flushed with delight and embarrassment, Mallory turned toward her mentor. "Thank you so much for all your help, Commander Spock. The _Lao-Tse_ isn't going to know what hit them."

"I am sure you will execute the desired changes with your customary efficiency, Ms. Mallory—now that you have access to my _detailed notes_." Spock slid a superior gaze toward Kirk, who put a hand over his face. Nyota didn't know whether to laugh or cringe on his behalf. She actually felt somewhat sorry for him, being so put upon; after all, he'd meant well.

"Well, I'm certainly going to spend a lot of time poring over them, you can be sure of that!" Mallory chattered in her chirpy way. "Really, there's so much to study in them! I can't thank you enough."

"Always glad to be of assistance, Ensign Mallory," Spock rumbled. "Do not hesitate to message me if you run into additional difficulties."

"Oh, may I?" Mallory's eyes sparkled. "That's so generous of you—"

To Nyota's annoyance, Spock stood a little taller. "Not at all, Ms. Mallory."

"I mean, having access to someone of your caliber—I can't even tell you how much that will help me—in so many ways!"

Kirk leaned closer to Nyota and barely murmured, "I thought you said you'd prefer it if they ogled in person."

Nyota barely moved her lips. "Shut up."

"Captain Kirk," Mallory gushed, reclaiming his attention. Her cheeks were red with enthusiasm and pleasure. "I can't thank you enough for agreeing to take me on as one of your officers. I've learned so much! I'm sure I'll remember my assignment here my whole career."

"I think we all will, lass," Scotty grinned.

"Yes, I think we've all learned something from this rotation," Kirk said.

"Oh, aye!" Scotty looked straight at Nyota. "We've all been exposed to lots of things we'll never forget."

"Whether we want to or not," added McCoy.

"The most important thing being," Kirk continued doggedly, "that we can always count on our fellow officers when we really need them." And he glared at Scotty and McCoy to cut off any other smart remarks they might want to add—which, based on their startled expressions, they'd both been preparing to deliver.

"Well, I'm honored to have been able to help out," said Mallory.

"We're glad to have had you here," said Kirk, shaking Mallory's hand. "Good luck!"

"Thank you, Captain. Thank you, all!"

"It was our pleasure," Scotty said sincerely.

Mallory gripped Nyota's hand, shaking it warmly. "Thanks for everything!"

"You're welcome!" she responded, startled.

Mallory moved off, waving. "Goodbye!"

"Goodbye!" chorused the assembled officers.

She disappeared around the side of the shuttlecraft, and they heard the hatch lower and click shut.

Scotty shook his head, smiling. "Such a pleasant young woman!"

"And studious," said Kirk. "I bet she won't be 10 minutes into her journey before she starts poring over those detailed notes."

Nyota elbowed him in the ribs.

"Ah, yes," said McCoy. "All that studying. How long do you think it will be before she has to message the _Enterprise_ with a follow-up question?"

"I give it three hours, Doctor," Scotty replied.

Spock looked offended. "I highly doubt it, Engineer. I was most thorough in conveying my thoughts. Besides, three hours isn't nearly enough time for her to master the material."

"It's not so much that she's interested in the _material_, Mr. Spock..."

Kirk clapped his hands. "Well, let's get back to work!"

Spock didn't move. "What do you mean, Mr. Scott? In my opinion, Ms. Mallory demonstrated extraordinary enthusiasm for the subject."

"For the subject of her enthusiasm, you mean," McCoy said.

Kirk waved them towards the door. "Everybody out! The air's going soon. We don't want to be blown into space!"

McCoy had opened his mouth to reply, when Chekov's voice came over the comm. "60 seconds to shuttlebay decompression. 60 seconds to launch."

The warning chime sounded, and the group finally began drifting toward the cargo bay door, technicians sprinting past them on either side.

However, Spock was unwilling to let the subject drop. "I found Ms. Mallory to be most attentive in every way, Mr. Scott."

"In _every_ way, Mr. Spock?" asked the Scot.

"Maybe not in _every_ way," McCoy said, giving Nyota a grin. She couldn't return it. She wished people would stop talking about the effect post-vacation Spock had had on crew... _morale_, as they euphemistically put it.

Spock was becoming frustrated. "I do not understand why the two of you continue to challenge my observations. I found Ms. Mallory to be a most willing subject."

At his remark, McCoy and Scotty burst into laughter. Even Kirk had a hard time keeping a straight face as he ushered the group into the hall. The cargo bay doors shut tight behind them, dimming the sound of the warning bell.

Spock frowned. "I fail to see what is so amusing."

Kirk glanced at Nyota, who was too irritated to respond, and then ran a hand through his hair. "Spock, what they're hinting about is..."

"Don't say it," Nyota growled.

Now Spock turned his gaze on her. The surprise and, yes, _hurt_ in his eyes—over her knowing something that she wasn't sharing with him—cut her to the quick.

"You said it wouldn't affect him," Kirk reminded her softly.

"It won't!" Nyota cried. "I just..." For some reason, she didn't want to bring the subject into the open. She couldn't even explain to herself why that was so.

Spock continued to eye them, his gaze demanding an answer.

"What they're trying to say," McCoy butted in, "is that we think Mallory found you attractive."

Spock blinked slowly. "I find that unlikely."

"It's more than likely," said Scotty. "Ye might say this falls into the realm of hard fact."

"Improbable, Engineer. Humans do not find Vulcans attractive."

Everyone stared. Nyota felt her jaw going. "What?" she asked weakly.

Spock looked at her with an apologetic gaze. "With rare exceptions, of course."

Everyone continued to stare at Spock, astounded. Then Scotty asked weakly, "What led ye to _this_ conclusion?"

"Simple observation, Mr. Scott."

Kirk looked stunned. "Your observations... led you to this conclusion?"

Scotty studied him with wonder. "And you call yourself a Science Officer."

"Maybe we can still get Mallory back," McCoy muttered.

"What observations?" Kirk asked. Nyota thought he looked badly confused—as confused as she felt.

Hating to waste time in mere conversation (Spock considered it inefficient), he began walking toward the turbolift; they all drifted along with him. "When I first relocated to Earth, I noticed a certain... strain in my interpersonal interactions. I began keeping a running summary of my encounters with humans and other non-Vulcans, in an attempt to track whether or not I could improve my style of communication."

"And it was a dead bust, wasn't it?" said McCoy.

Nyota waved him quiet.

"Over the years there has been a slight improvement, but Dr. McCoy is correct in suggesting that no substantial breakthrough has been made."

Kirk appeared fascinated. "So, what are the statistics?"

"Almost 98% of my encounters with humans seem to evoke a reaction of annoyance, irritation, or frustration."

"This comes as a _surprise_ to you?" asked McCoy.

Nyota swatted him.

"92% involve some level of confusion in the other party," Spock continued equably, "87% produce a reaction of fear, 63% seem to provoke the emotional response of anger, 43% involve a personal insult or racial slur—"

"Ye missed the lust," Scotty interrupted.

Spock looked around. "I beg your pardon?"

"The lust. 67.2% of all your personal interactions _must_ involve a certain level of lust, or I'm off my mark about human nature."

Spock's eyebrows drew together. "On what are you basing that figure?"

"On _my_ observations—which I'll wager are a good deal more accurate in this regard than yours."

"I do not understand."

"That's the point we're trying to make," said McCoy.

But Kirk looked uneasy. "43% of your personal interactions involve a personal insult or slur?" He gave Nyota a look that mirrored some of her own dismay. "Is the crew of the _Enterprise_ that insensitive?"

"No, sir. As I explained, these statistics date back to my first arrival on Earth. On the _Enterprise_, the percentage is slightly below 34%."

"34%." Kirk gave Nyota a troubled glance. "That's still terrible."

McCoy only grinned. "We're just trying to keep you humble, Mr. Spock."

"I see." Spock looked down his nose at him. "A noble effort, but a vain one, Doctor."

"Say again?"

"Humility is not in my nature."

Nyota smothered her laugh. Spock definitely had his own brand of humor.

But McCoy was not amused. His eyebrows snapped together. "Not in your nature, huh? Do you really want me to get started on what I think about your 'nature,' you pointy-eared, green-blooded—"

"Well, that's enough teambuilding for today!" Kirk interrupted cheerfully.

"35%," Scotty murmured to Nyota.

McCoy subsided, but he was clearly irritated. _There goes another tick in the anger column_, Nyota thought regretfully.

They had arrived at the turbolift, but Nyota was not looking forward to sharing the lift with Bones. McCoy and Spock had an uneasy truce at the best of times—and an agitated McCoy was not "the best of times."

Scotty must have read her mind. He said suddenly, "Why don't ye come along with me, Doctor? Technician Nelson has been asking after ye."

McCoy's expression instantly brightened. "Really?"

"Aye. And if ye know what's good for ye, ye won't keep the lady waiting." Scotty gave Nyota a parting look which managed to convey his sympathy, even as McCoy hurried to the engineer's side.

"Where is she working today?" McCoy asked.

"I've got her on the antimatter regulator..."

Their voices faded as they walked down the hall. Silently, Kirk, Spock, and Nyota stood waiting for the turbolift. After others' departure, the lull felt awkward.

"Spock, Nyota," Kirk said softly, "I'm sorry about that. Bones is... well, he's the way he is. I don't think anything I say will ever change him."

"He doesn't really mean it," Nyota said to Spock.

"To what are you referring, Lieutenant?"

Kirk answered. "All that 'pointy-eared, green-blooded' stuff."

"Interesting." Spock's face didn't change expression. "As I am, in fact, pointy-eared and green-blooded, I see little for which to chastise the doctor."

"It's the way he said it," said Nyota. "As if it were an insult."

"Indeed. I shall have to refresh the good doctor as to what constitutes an insult. As it is, I can see no grounds for taking offense at a mere statement of fact."

"Well, I can." Kirk looked determined. "Look, you don't have to take it on the chin all the time. 34% personal insults—that's ridiculous. This isn't Vulcan Toughening School. I can... raise awareness, or something."

"If my mere presence does not 'raise awareness,' I'm not certain what method you mean to employ."

The conversation was interrupted as the turbolift arrived. Solemnly, they all stepped inside. Nyota felt the need for tactile contact, but was frustrated by her self-imposed rules. As a compromise, she stood so close to Spock, she could feel the heat of his body and the touch of his uniform sleeve against her arm. As usual, he looked blandly straight ahead. He didn't seem upset—but then, he wouldn't. Kirk, on the other hand, looked as uneasy as Nyota felt.

"Bridge," Kirk said. The turbolift accelerated.

Nyota sighed, and absently stroked Spock's arm. He was so dear to her; how could other people not see his good qualities?

Kirk was still pondering the problem. "To raise awareness, I think we'd have to create a situation where people aren't interacting with you as either First Officer or a science whiz—that's probably where a lot of the fear you noticed comes from."

"Simple intimidation," said Nyota.

"No one has cause to be intimidated," said Spock. "We each have our gifts."

"That may be so," said Kirk, "but some people's gifts can be damned intimidating. I know!" He snapped his fingers. "We could have Hug a Vulcan Day."

Nyota seized Spock's arm, and felt him stiffen beneath her fingers. "Not on your life!"

Spock said coldly, "I am certain a hug is not the appropriate response to the problem."

"Maybe not. But it could help to raise _your_ awareness as to what constitutes unrequited sexual tension in the human animal."

"Hmm, most curious." Spock furrowed his brow. "It perplexes me how Mr. Scott could come up with such an accurate figure for supposed instances of lust in my associates. One must assume he is working with, at best, a skewed sample size."

Nyota said, "I think he was making a generalization, dear."

"He only meant to convey," Kirk interjected, "that, all statistics aside, a lot of people around here think that you're... hot."

"I do have a naturally warmer body temperature—"

"Sexually attractive, I mean."

"I see no evidence of that behavior."

Nyota said gently, "I just don't think you've learned to recognize it, sugar."

"Yeah," said Kirk. "You probably put it under the 'Confused' category."

"Ah." Spock's eyes narrowed. "I do recall noticing an inordinate amount of confusion in the behavior of my shipmates a couple of days ago, when I returned from the planet."

Kirk looked at Nyota. "A breakthrough."

"May I inquire into a different subject?"

"By all means."

Spock fixed Kirk with his stare. "How long have you been calling Lieutenant Uhura 'Nyota'?"

Nyota and Kirk exchanged startled glances, then burst into laughter.

"I did to that, didn't I?" said Kirk.

"Approximately 98 seconds ago."

Nyota petted Spock's arm. "It started while you were away— I don't exactly remember the occasion."

"You had some concerns about Mallory, as I recall," Kirk said.

"It was meant to be supportive," Nyota explained.

"I see. And this conversation is also meant to be 'supportive'?"

Kirk nodded. "Yes, Spock, it is."

"That may also explain why Lieutenant Uhura is stroking my arm and calling me 'dear.'"

Nyota felt herself blush. "Yes." Hastily she dropped his arm. "Sorry, Commander."

"It's okay though, Spock, isn't it?" Kirk asked. "We can be informal if it's just us— right?"

Spock studied their faces. "I am not generally in favor of subverting protocol."

"But this is 'friend' protocol," Nyota said quickly. "It's a different set of rules."

"Indeed." Spock straightened. "Well, I shall endeavor to familiarize myself with 'friend' protocol." He hesitated. "But I would rather you didn't call me 'dear' in front of the captain."

"That's okay, Spock," Kirk said, as the turbolift slowed. "I don't need to hear that, either."

The doors opened. Quietly, Spock said, "And I would prefer that you avoided calling her 'Nyota.'"

Nyota smothered a laugh, as Kirk wasn't sure how to look.

Together, they stepped onto the bridge.

**THE END**

Coming soon, another installment in this series: _The Benefits of Rigid Thinking. _Cheers!


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